


Lightning in Your Eyes

by pdoesart (elphie_jolras)



Series: And Now You'll Lead the Way [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: 'original characters' basically children, Everybody Loves Cullen Rutherford, F/M, Heterosexual Man Ruins Everything, al is Very Supportive of Anders, alternate warden origin, anders gets a cat, but everything went to hell, by which i mean I COMBINED TWO OF THEM MWAHAHA, discovery of family!!!, everybody is heartbroken by the loss of hawke's hair, hawke gets a haircut, it was supposed to be a fun vacation, so basically the usual, that is to say sebastian shows up and everything suCKS, there's two children they're cute i promise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2016-06-22
Packaged: 2018-04-16 10:00:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4621104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elphie_jolras/pseuds/pdoesart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What Al (previously Persephone) Lavellan expected was a few weeks off in the company of Warden Mahariel and the Champion of Kirkwall.</p>
<p>She should have known better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You Drink a Bitter Draught

“Did she ever tell you about her infatuation with Cullen?”

Varric was grinning from ear to ear as he spoke to Hawke and Warden Mahariel, waggling his eyebrows as he shot a sidelong glance at Al.  The Inquisitor groaned and shoved her head into her hands, feeling a flush creep along her cheeks and neck.  Did he really have to bring that up?  _Really_?  Yes, she’d flirted with Cullen for a week or two, after she’d first joined the Inquisition.  But she’d gotten over it quickly.  _Very_ quickly.  It wasn’t that she didn’t like Cullen – she did like Cullen!  She was very fond of Cullen, in fact.  They had become very good friends, especially once she’d (accidentally) fallen for Solas.  But there was really no need to bring up how she had briefly felt about the Commander.

“Shut up, Varric,” Al said, though her words were muffled by the palms of her hands.  Hawke laughed, tossing back her head, and Adriana Mahariel ( _Ana,_ Al reminded herself) grinned.

“Can you blame her?” the Grey Warden asked, shifting a little in her chair.  “You _have_ met the Commander, haven’t you?”

“Men are immune to the charms of Commander Rutherford,” Hawke insisted, waving her hand.  “Varric doesn’t understand.  What _I_ want to know,” — here she leaned forward in her chair, directing her gaze at Al, who removed her face from her hands — “Is how you went from _Cullen_ to your current romantic liason.”

“Ooh, _liason,_ big word,” Varric teased, “Have you been improving your vocabulary, Hawke?”

Hawke punched him.  It was a gentle punch, but the dwarf still grumbled and rubbed his arm.  Al, in response to Hawke’s question, shrugged.

“It’s the difference between _physical attraction_ and being in love,” Ana said.  The dark-skinned woman with the vallaslin of June winked at the Inquisitor, and then turned back to Hawke.  “When I was at the Circle, I had my own little infatuation with Cullen.”

“ _No,_ ” Hawke gasped over-dramatically, “What could _possibly_ attract a mage to one of those _terrible_ Templars?”

Ana grinned, sighed, and tapped one long finger against her lips.  “Well, I hadn’t really _met_ many men outside of my clan.  Of course, the only reason I was _in_ a Circle in the first place was because there were too many mages in Sabrae.  When we discovered that my little sister, Nadya, was a mage, I offered to step down from my position of second and give it to her.  I left and entered the Circle.  And there was Cullen.  Young, adorable, and _gorgeous_.”

“Oh, was that your first impression?” Al asked, grinning.  Ana laughed.

“Don’t pretend that _your_ first thought upon seeing Cullen wasn’t _Creators, thank you for gifting this man to Thedas._ ”

Hawke hummed appreciatively.  “Gotta say, that’s basically how it was with me.”

Al nodded, though she was still blushing.  “Essentially, yes.”

“Andraste’s sacred left eyebrow!” Varric exclaimed, throwing his hands up in the air, “What I’m getting here is that Cullen should be the hero of my next romance novel.”

He seemed to be joking, but the women came to a silent (and unanimous) decision to make noises of approval.  A disgusted noise fell from his lips, and he left.

“I’m telling Blondie!” he yelled to Hawke.  The woman grinned.

“Go ahead!”

\--

They had arrived at Skyhold in vastly different ways.  First was Warden Mahariel, who had found a cheering crowd awaiting her at the gate.  The woman, with her hair the color of flame and her slate-grey eyes, had smiled at the crowd.  Her husband, Zevran, and their daughter Philippa had entered the gates just behind her.  Zevran was dashing, with his golden hair and dark skin.  Their daughter was young, six or seven, with her mother’s grey eyes and a mess of wild curls that were the same shade as her father’s.

Hawke and Anders had come in more quietly, early the next morning with no crowd awaiting their arrival and no welcoming committee beyond Al, Varric, and a stoic Fen’Harel.  The Inquisitor had tried to insist to him that he wasn’t required to greet the Champion, but she knew why he accompanied them.  Fen’Harel didn’t trust Anders.  It was foolish, in her eyes, but she couldn’t change his mind.  Hawke trusted Anders, and _she_ trusted Hawke.  Plus (and she would never, _never_ tell Vivienne this), she agreed with his actions.  Well, partly.  The ‘blowing up a Chantry’ idea wasn’t a brilliant idea, but she knew that he’d had no other choice.  Desperate, spurred on by an opinionated spirit, he had done what he thought was necessary.

Wasn’t that what she did every day?  She made hard choices – necessary choices, but hard nonetheless — and she had to deal with the consequences of that.  Deciding who to leave in the Fade was a decision that still haunted her, night after night.  It wasn’t the choice which she’d _made_ that haunted her — Stroud’s death was not a mark on her conscience — but rather what choice she had nearly made.  Nightmares of Hawke being left behind, rushing at the Nightmare with a defiant cry, a quiet “ _I’m sorry, Anders”_ the last thing Al heard before they were out, they were free, the rift snapping shut behind them with a sickening finality.  Those were the nights when Fen’Harel had to bring her to gentler parts of the Fade, when he had to shape their surroundings to the now-familiar ballroom with the elvhen dancers.

Day after day, she’d explained why she trusted Anders to each of her friends (her family?  They were close enough at this point), and to her mother.  Some of them almost came around; others (Fen’Harel and Vivienne) were adamant that Anders was evil, an abomination, et cetera, et cetera.  By the time Anders and Hawke actually arrived with their daughter, Al had given up on convincing them otherwise.

Their daughter was young – _very_ young.  It had been only a year since the defeat of Corypheus, three years since the Conclave… doing the math, Al decided, Hawke’s daughter could be no older than four.

She was suddenly very glad that she hadn’t let Hawke stay in the Fade.

“Al!” Hawke exclaimed, beaming and rushing forward to wrap her arms around the petite elf, “How are you?”

“Oh, you know, the usual,” Al laughed, returning Hawke’s hug with all of the strength her thin arms held.   Which was a lot, taking into account the fact that she spent most of her days shooting a bow or swinging around a pair of daggers which were more like short swords.  “Mysterious past uncovered, apostate lover has a deep, dark, secret.  No rest for the wicked, huh?”

“Al,” Varric said, a chuckle rumbling in his chest, “If you’re _wicked,_ what does that make _me_?”

“An asshole,” Hawke quipped, disentangling herself from the elf in order to turn to the dwarf.  That was when both the Inquisitor and Varric noticed that something was off about the Champion of Kirkwall.  It wasn’t what she’d said, no, that was perfectly normal for Hawke.  It wasn’t the piercing blue of her eyes – although, Maker, thought Al, those were some _intense_ eyes – it wasn’t even the blood stripe across the bridge of her nose (although it _did_ look a little bit wonky; perhaps her hand had slipped while applying it).  No, it was none of those things.  It was her _hair._

Hawke’s long, raven locks had been chopped off, leaving her with a messy hairstyle not unlike what Al’s had been.  Before Al started growing hers out.  Long bangs fell in front of her bright blue eyes, and she flicked them away with a toss of her head.

“What happened to your _hair_?” Varric asked, staring at the Champion in undisguised shock.  Al was doing little better, and she grabbed at Fen’Harel’s hand in her surprise.  She’d _loved_ Hawke’s hair.  It was beautiful, it was gorgeous, it was everything that Al had ever wanted from her own hair.  Instead, she got a brown mess that hated to be brushed and had therefore, for most of Al’s life, been kept controlled by not growing past her ears.  As a girl, her caretaker (an old, crotchety woman named Demeter; she had _no_ patience for girls who cried when their hair got pulled too hard by the brush) had chopped off her long hair, leaving her with the style she had worn until the defeat of Corypheus.  At that point, Al had figured that she could handle a few knots in her hair, and decided to grow it out.  Now, seven months after she had saved the world, her hair was barely brushing her shoulders.  But it was soft, it had the beginnings of curls, and she _loved_ it.

She couldn’t believe that Hawke had chopped hers off.

“You sound like Anders!” Hawke exclaimed, grinning and tossing a look over her shoulder at her companions.  The apostate rolled his eyes, but there was a smile tugging at his lips that he couldn’t quite hide.  “I cut it before I got to Weisshaupt, and you should have seen his _face_ when he woke up to see me by the fire, my hair all around me on the ground.”

“I liked your hair,” Anders cut in, turning to his young daughter and lifting her up into his arms, where she promptly began playing with his feathered pauldrons.  “Bethy, no,” he chided, but sighed when the little girl turned her large-eyed gaze upon him.  “Fine,” he grumbled, but there was a softness in his eyes when he looked at his daughter.

“Well, I like my hair _this_ way,” Hawke said simply, not turning around, “And you know that you can’t give in to her, or else she’ll think that she can always have her way.”

“It’s not _my_ fault!” he protested, “She has your eyes, love, and you _know_ I can’t resist them.”

Hawke rolled her eyes with an exasperated sigh and a soft smile, looking down at Varric.  “What’s a woman to do?” she asked, “Both of them give me the puppy eyes, Varric.  _Both_ of them.  ‘We won’t stop until nightfall’, I say, but then Bethany sees a field of flowers and _has_ to have a flower crown from them.  Of course, papa here can’t say _no,_ ” — she shot a glance over her shoulder, arching an eyebrow at Anders — “And so we end up stopping so his darling princess can have her crown.”

“What, you mean it’s exactly like traveling with you?” Varric joked.  Hawke gave him a flat look, and the dwarf shrugged.  “Hey, I only speak the truth.”

“That’s a filthy lie and you know it,” Al cut in, “No dwarf speaks the truth, _durgen’len_.”

“Oh, are we going to start the classic elf/dwarf rivalry now?” Varric asked, “I’ve been waiting years for this, Stabby.  You wouldn’t _believe_ the things I’ve thought of.”

“Come on, Varric,” Al laughed, “Obviously our connection is far too deep and meaningful to have such a rivalry.”

“The shipment should be coming soon,” Hawke interrupted, making Al lose her train of thought.  The elf arched an eyebrow at the Champion, both intrigued and worried.  Knowing Hawke, the shipment could be anything from pies to explosives.

“Shipment?” Al asked, wondering if she was making a giant mistake with the inquiry.  Hawke beamed, planting her hands on her hips.

“Mabari puppies!” she exclaimed, “I got you a litter of mabari puppies!”

“And a cat,” Anders added.  Hawke rolled her eyes.

“The cat!” Al remembered suddenly, and spun to face Fen’Harel with an urgency she rarely displayed.  “Fen, what did I do with the cat?”

“I believe,” the elf said, “That you gave it to Cullen to watch over.”

“Why the fu — _heck_ ,” she amended hastily, remembering that there was a young girl present, “Would I give the cat to Cullen?”

Fen’Harel shrugged, a fluid motion, and Anders shook his head a little.  “Please,” he said, “Don’t bother to stop yourself from swearing.  Hawke certainly doesn’t.”

“Nonsense!” the woman cried, swiveling on her heel to look at her daughter, “Bethany knows better than to repeat what Momma says, don’t you, Bethy?”

“Tits!” the little girl replied, throwing her hands in the air with a gleeful laugh.  Hawke blanched; Anders placed his free hand against his forehead in exasperation.

“Fen, _ma lath_ , will you go fetch the cat for me?” Al asked.  He frowned, the expression change near-imperceptible for anyone who hadn’t spent ages learning how to read him.  His grip on her hand tightened, another action that gave away his discomfort at leaving her alone anywhere near Anders, but she pulled free and shot him a look of such utter exasperation that he had no choice but to obey.  She would _not_ be coddled by him, not be smothered as he attempted to keep her “safe” from a man who meant her no harm.

The Dread Wolf stalked off, and his stiff posture and clenched fists betrayed his apprehension and anger.  Al scoffed after him, rolling her eyes.

“He’s _impossible_!” she said, “No matter how many times I tell him — ”

“I’m sorry,” Anders began, scrubbing a hand through his hair and dislodging a few golden strands.

“I’d imagine that’s how most everyone is,” Hawke said with a grin, moving to fix the mage’s hair with deft hands.  Her thumb brushed over the smooth skin of his cheek and he leaned in to kiss her briefly, sharing a tender gaze and small smile.  Al couldn’t help but smile as well, looking at the two of them.  It was obvious that they loved each other very much.  “What’s this deep, dark secret that _your_ broody elf has been hiding from you?  Secret family?  Secretly a murderer?”  She paused, pursed her lips, and added, “Secretly an evil god?”

Al winced; Hawke caught the gesture and her raven brows flew up.

“ _No_ ,” she breathed, eyes wide and a laugh bubbling up in her throat.

“Yes,” Al replied, and then, “Well, not _exactly_ evil, just… the god of rebellion?  The Dalish call him the Dread Wolf — Fen’Harel.”

“Wait,” Hawke interrupted, holding up a hand, “Varric, isn’t that the one Merrill is always talking about?”  She put on an accent, presumably in an impression of Merrill, and said: “By the Dread Wolf!  Fen’Harel’s tooth!  Dread Wolf take you!”

“That’s the one,” Varric nodded, “He locked all of the other gods away to solve slavery or something.  Al knows more than I do.”

“Well, that’s the basics of it,” the Inquisitor commented, glancing down at the dwarf.  “Nice, Varric.”

“I’m going to take a wild guess and say that he’s learned all of this just for whatever book he’s writing about you,” Anders said.

“Without a doubt,” Hawke replied, nodding her head.  Varric shrugged helplessly.

“Guess you know me better than I thought, Blondie.”

It was then that Fen’Harel chose to reappear, carrying a basket in one arm.  “Commander Rutherford was… quite disappointed when I revealed what I had come for.”

“Is that so?” Al asked, taking the basket from him with a quick grin.  “I suppose he deserves one as well.  I’ll send out an order later.”

Maybe, now that he’d been gone for five minutes and she was still alive, he would stop being so overprotective of her.  She loved him, loved her Wolf with her whole heart, but he occasionally acted like the smallest of things could break her.

Like she was still the glass figurine she had been when they had met.

Maybe she trusted too easily, maybe she was wrong about Anders.  But she’d relied on her instincts up until that point, and she was still alive.   The only major mishap she’d had was with the Well.  And, really, drinking from a Well and subjecting herself to the will of an elven goddess (or witch of the wilds, depending on how you looked at it) was just as insane as Anders allowing Justice to use him as a host.  So, no, she wasn’t worried about Anders.  She had the Well whispering in her head; a single spirit couldn’t be any worse than those hundreds of souls who had pledged themselves to Mythal.

Al, remembering the gift which Fen’Harel had fetched for her, held out the basket towards Anders.  “I got this for you,” she said, “Hawke told me — well, she said you liked cats, and…”

Anders handed Bethany off to Hawke and approached slowly, a strange expression of disbelief and excitement flickering into existence on his fair features.  As he took the basket from the Inquisitor, a small, furred head peeked over the lid.

The kitten meowed.  Anders beamed.

“I’m naming her Warden-Commander Pufflepaws!”


	2. I Sip the Tears Your Eyes Fight to Hold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, Hawke's past is too much. But Anders is always there to catch her when she falls.
> 
> Also, Cullen is good with children (but that wasn't a secret).

_Hawke:_

_Don’t worry about Bethany!  She’s with me, her Aunt Al.  I found her earlier this morning, pestering Vivienne with all sorts of questions about magic and where she came from, as well as sharing her own life story with our dear Knight Enchanter.  I checked in on you and Anders, but you were both still asleep, so I took Bethy to breakfast, and now I’m giving her a tour of Skyhold.  I had the servants leave a tray of food outside your door — enjoy breakfast in bed!_

—     _Al_

Hawke rubbed the sleep out of her eyes and blinked uncomprehendingly at the note, reading it two more times before she finally understood what the Inquisitor was telling her.  Of _course_ Bethany had been bothering the one Circle mage that the Inquisition had to offer.  She couldn’t have approached Al’s lover?  Even the Tevinter that Al considered a friend would have been preferable to Grand Enchantress Vivienne de Fer.

She sighed, knowing that her daughter’s penchant for trouble was a given, considering the shit that Hawke and Anders had gotten into over the years.  Still, Hawke wished that Bethy had waited a few more years before becoming a little adventurer.  In addition, Bethany's magic had already begun to surface.  As if Hawke didn’t have enough worries with a fiancé (because they _still_ hadn’t gotten married) who had blown up a Chantry and started a war.

She was still pissed about that.  Not about the Chantry (although she was _still_ constantly looking over her shoulder to check for Sebastian), but about the fact that he hadn’t trusted her.

 _It isn’t that I didn’t trust you_ , his voice said in her head (they’d had this conversation before), _I just couldn’t let you ruin your reputation by helping me._

That wasn’t what he’d said on that day, though.  _What if you had tried to stop me?_ As if she hadn’t been _just_ as involved for the fight for mage rights.  As if she hadn’t been giving money to the Underground since before they’d met.  They’d freed countless mages from the gallows over the decade that she’d been in Kirkwall, and he still had believed that she would stop him.

People had believed in a compromise, and though she’d hoped for one, she knew deep down that it couldn’t happen.  She’d lost hope five years in, and had grown angrier and angrier towards the Templars in the time that followed.  With the _Tranquil Solution_ and all of the other shit that had been brought to light, she’d lost any respect for the assholes that claimed to _protect_ mages by taking away what made them human. Elven. Whatever.

The mages affected by the Maker-damned Tranquil Solution flashed to the forefront of her mind, and her stomach churned.  Her hands clenched into fists, and she lashed out with her right hand in blinding rage that took hold so suddenly it left her breathless.  Her fist struck the door hard and searing pain shot up her arm. She let out a loud swear.

Anders, upon hearing her exclamation, sat upright in bed, instantly awake.  “Hawke?”

Blood welled up from her scraped and bruised knuckles, and she sat down on the floor in what could adequately be described as a heap.  “Shit.”

He was kneeling at her side instantly, gently taking her hand and looking it over.  “What did you do?” he asked her, running his other hand over her knuckles.  Blue light emanated from his fingertips, and when his hand finished its pass, her skin was restored, pale and flawless.

“I punched the door,” Hawke mumbled, grasping his hand.  She didn’t want him to leave. “I got pissed, and I punched the door.”

“I see,” Anders said, sitting down beside her, “And who were you pretending the door was, sweetheart?”

She allowed him to pull her onto his lap, leaning back against him.  Her mind was still stuck thinking about Ser Alrik, about the Tranquil girl in the marketplace who had said _I am Ser Alrik’s now_ when her lover spoke to her.  It had made her sick to her stomach then, made her more afraid than she’d been in a long time.  It _still_ scared her.  She’d seen it in the way he’d looked at her, the bastard.  He had seen Hawke and planned her as his next victim, because nobody would question if an _apostate_ was made Tranquil.  He could simply wave away any questions by saying _blood magic_ , and nobody would wonder if he’d been wrong.

She let very few things slip under her armor, but sometimes she couldn’t keep them out.  Sometimes, deaths hit her hard.  Her father, Bethany, her _mother_ … they’d all gotten to her, made a mess of her on the inside.  But fear wasn’t something she let debilitate herself.  She couldn’t afford to be paralyzed by terror.  Not with her life.  Still, some people managed to terrify her.  The man who had killed Leandra.  Alrik.  They haunted her dreams, made it hard to sleep.  She even had nightmares about _Sebastian_ sometimes, about what he’d said before he’d stormed away.

_I swear to you, I will come back and find your precious Anders.  I will teach him what true justice is._

“Alrik,” she whispered, trying to relax against him.  But she couldn’t — her limbs stayed stiff, ready to fight or flee.  Anders stiffened behind her in response to the name, and she knew that _he_ was thinking about the girl he’d almost killed.  “Alrik and his _fucking_ Tranquil ‘solution’, like doing _that_ to anyone isn’t worse than killing them…”  She felt hot tears spilling forth, and she wiped them away angrily with a free hand.  Fucking Templar, getting to her years after his death.  She was pissed at herself, now.  What the _hell_ was she so afraid of?  Anders had killed Alrik.  Alrik was dead.  Alrik couldn’t do anything…

But someone else might get the same damn idea.  “ _Fuck_ ,” she hissed, dropping her chin so that it was nearly touching her chest.  “I saw the way he looked at me, like I was some…” her lip twisted into a snarl, and she squeezed her eyes shut.  She couldn’t say it, not even to the man she loved.  _Like I was some piece of skirt for him to take as he pleased._ “Like I was going to be the pinnacle of his fucking crusade to make us all Tranquil — _look, even the rebellious apostate Hawke can be tamed to do_ whatever _you want_!”

Hawke was shaking, her hands quivering as he moved her, turning her around so that she was straddling his legs, facing him.  He grabbed her other hand and brought them up to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles.  The tears were still spilling and now sobs were making her chest heave.  She could barely see through her tears, everything a blur, but she knew that Anders had her.  It was going to be okay.  Anders was there.

“Maker’s Breath, I’m so _weak_ ,” she snarled to herself, disgusted by her inability to stop crying, disgusted by how a dead man could affect her.

“No,” Anders said, “No, love, it’s okay to be scared.  Do you hear me, Charlotte?  You have _every right_ to be afraid.”

She was a mess, she really was, and she buried her head into his chest and cried there instead.  Anything to hide her tears.

They sat like that for what seemed like forever, Anders pressing kisses to the top of her head as she cried every tear she’d held back over her life.  When there were no more tears and she lifted her head, he smiled at her and wiped her eyes.  “But know this,” he said quietly, “I would sooner _die_ than let them take you.  As long as I breathe, I will kill any who even dare to try.”

“As I recall,” she sniffed, giving a watery laugh, “It’s usually _me_ saving _your_ ass, not the other way around.  What happened to the Templars about to perform the Rite on you, and me bursting in to save you, leaving you to find some way to _repay_ me?”

He gave a lopsided smile, and she felt a surge of warmth in her chest.   “We protect each other,” he said softly, “And we protect Bethany.  I would kill every Templar in existence to ensure the safety of the both of you.”

“Drowning in blood again?” Hawke asked, pressing a soft kiss to his lips, “I thought we agreed upon that being a _bad_ plan, dear.”

“We did, didn’t we?”

\--

“Good catch, _da’len_! Now, toss it back!”

Little Bethany, clutching a ball in her small hands, beamed at something behind Al.  She dropped the ball and took off running, rushing past the Inquisitor in a blur of dark hair and long green tunic.

“Momma! Papa!” she squealed, and Al turned to witness Hawke and Anders emerging into the garden.

“Hey, kid!” Hawke exclaimed, crouching down and holding her arms wide.  Bethany flew into them, wrapping her arms around her mother and planting kisses all over the Champions face.

“Momma, Aunt Al showed me the _entire_ castle!  And Uncle Fen made cool blue fire!  And I got to meet Cullen, an’ he let me use his desk an’ draw a picture!”

The girl pulled away from her mother and turned to Anders, continuing her narrative of the morning’s adventures: “Papa, there’s a boy here, an’ he’s called Cole, and he said that you’re really sad.  Are you sad because I didn’t go to bed on time last night?”

“Oh, sweetie, no!” he exclaimed, scooping her up into his arms.  “It isn’t your fault that I’m sad.”

“Then why _are_ you sad?”

Anders’ face grew solemn, and he gave Bethany a tight hug.  “It doesn’t matter, little one.  You don’t have to worry about it.”

There was silence for a moment, but the talkative Bethany could never be quiet for long.  “Uncle Varric said that he wrote a book about you, momma!  _And_ he said he’d write one about me!”

“Oh, did he?” Hawke asked, chuckling.  Her eyes met Al’s, and she arched one raven brow.  “Is there anywhere you _didn’t_ take her?”

“She hasn’t met Leliana or Cassandra yet,” Al replied, offering up a shrug.  “Josephine and Blackwall were quite charmed by her, however.  And she was fascinated by Dorian — er, well, by his moustache.”

“He’s my favorite!” Bethany declared of the Tevinter mage, and then frowned, her little forehead wrinkling in concentration.  “Wait… I like Cullen too.”

Al didn’t miss the way that both Hawke and Anders stiffened at the Commander’s name, and she understood why they were so uneasy.  She hadn’t planned on bringing the young Hawke to visit Cullen, but Bethany had pretty much pulled her wherever she’d wanted, and Al had been dragged along behind.  She knew that Cullen had done some terrible things in his past, but she hoped that Hawke and Anders would see that he was struggling to atone, and that he was slowly shifting his mindset.  His friendship with Dorian was a definite improvement, for one.

“He said you were _real_ brave, momma,” Bethy added, “And he said that papa was a… Aunt Al, what did he say?”

“He said that you were a good man,” Al said, “healing people the way you did.”

_“What’s in here?”_

_The youngest Hawke’s voice echoed off of the walls of Cullen’s office as she bounded in, dragging the Inquisitor behind her.  Her hair was pulled into a braid, an intricate crown of flowers atop her head, her amber eyes wide with wonder as she took in the figure of Cullen, standing by the bookcase._

_“Whoa,” she said, “You’re_ real _tall.”_

_Cullen turned to look at the little girl, chuckling as a grin pulled up the right side of his mouth.  “So I’ve been told,” he said, then looked up at Al and bowed his head.  “Inquisitor.”_

_“I’m terribly sorry if we’re intruding,” the Inquisitor said quickly, “I know how busy you are.  If you were in the middle of something — ”_

_“You’re fine,” he said, “Now.” He knelt before the little girl, his boyish grin still on his face, “Who are you?”_

_“I’m Bethany!” the little girl exclaimed proudly, planting her hands on her hips.  Cullen arched an eyebrow, glancing up at Al._

_“Hawke’s daughter,” Al explained, and then, “Bethany, this is Cullen.  He’s in charge of the army.”_

_“Really?” Bethy’s eyes got even wider, if that was possible, staring at Cullen.  “Is that why your shoulders are furry?”_

_Al couldn’t help it; she burst out laughing.  Cullen laughed too, quieter than the Inquisitor (but, then again, Fen’Lethal’s laugh was_ loud _, and she never held back).  “I suppose you could say that,” he nodded, and then, “Did you know that I used to know your mother and father?”_

_“Really?” Bethany breathed.  He nodded._

_“Your mother is a brave woman, Bethany.  There are few I’ve met who have as much courage as she.  And your father…”_

_Al didn’t know what she expected.  Cullen wasn’t fond of Anders, she knew that, but she had a feeling that he wouldn’t say anything bad about the apostate in front of the little girl._

_“Your father was one of the best men Kirkwall had to offer.  He helped people whom no one else would, and he did it for free when others would charge large sums of gold.”_

_She beamed for a moment, and Cullen smiled at her.  Finally, the Commander gestured at his desk with his head.  “Would you like to see what I do every day?  I have plenty of paper; do you like to draw?”_

“He was good with her,” Al said to Hawke, “I mean, _really_ good.  _Natural skill_ good.”

“Sounds like you,” Hawke said.  Bethany took off, back into the garden, dragging Anders behind her.  “Somewhere, there’s a world where the two of you are married and have a brood of elf-blooded children with golden hair and green eyes.”

“Ah, yes,” Al said drily, “And, in this world, I am a mage who met Varric when I left my clan at the tender age of seventeen, and had adventures with you in Kirkwall.  Upon seeing how much the dear Commander had changed with the Inquisition, I fell madly in love with him.  Also, I’m not the Inquisitor; that title belongs to a human from the Free Marches.”

“Really, Varric should be here for this,” the Champion commented, “He could make a _fortune_ out of this.  Actually, wait, nevermind.  I’ll send word to Isabela, and she can write her infamous _friend fiction._ Except it can center on you and Commander Rutherford instead of the rest of us.”

Al tried to imagine any “friend fiction” involving her and Cullen.  Varric had told her about it when she’d asked about his Kirkwall days; just thinking about what the pirate would invent for her and the Commander brought a blush to her cheeks.

“I would be mortified!” Cullen would never be able to look her in the eye again.  They didn’t… she had gotten over any _infatuation_ with him long ago.  He was her dear friend, nothing more.

“Trust me, the rest of us would be equally so.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title of this chapter taken from the same poem as the last one!


	3. A Cup of Lees

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adriana and Cullen are reunited, Josephine throws a party, and Hawke pretends to be an Orlesian.
> 
> Also, everything goes to hell.

Adriana watched fondly as Zevran threw Hawke’s daughter over his shoulder, letting out his best evil laugh as Bethany shrieked in delight.  Philippa and Kieran, whom Adriana had convinced to join in, chased after the assassin with their best attempts at battle cries.  Philippa had found a lion helmet, and was holding it on her head as she roared at her father.  Kieran had discovered a wooden sword somewhere, and was brandishing it with a laugh.

Bethany was pounding against his back and Zevran went down with a dramatic shout, making sure to let Bethany land gently.

The other two were upon him in seconds, and Bethany joined in on the fun.

“Warden!” Zevran called, laughing, “My dear, _mi amor!_ Save me!”

Adriana let out a snort and shook her head, looking away as her husband was smothered by the children.  She was surprised by the appearance of Cullen, slipping into the garden as if he was nervous to be seen.  He looked _tired_ , like he’d been overworked.  She sighed a little, knowing from what Al had told her that Cullen _did_ work too much.  It showed, too, in the dark circles under his eyes and the dull gaze that he turned on the occupants of the garden.

At least, it was dull until he spotted Bethany.  Then it brightened considerably, a fond smile pulling at the corners of his lips — his scar seemed to hitch the right side of his mouth up higher than the left.  She hadn’t seen him in over a decade, and the amount that he’d changed was remarkable; he had grown into himself, become a better person.  She remembered, faintly, the brief attraction that had passed between them, untouched and unrecognized.

_The one thing I always wanted but could never have… an ill-advised infatuation…_

Truly, she had always fallen for people easily.  At a young age she’d been in love with her best friend Tamlen (long dead, now; killed by the taint when the Grey Wardens did not save him as they had her sister); when Cullen came to the Circle she’d been taken in by him.

When Duncan took her to the Wardens and she reunited with her sister, she’d found Alistair a refreshing change from the Templars at the Circle.  He was amusing, witty, funny, and sweet.  She had, for the first few weeks, flirted with him shamelessly.  He was the first man she hadn’t been _afraid_ to pursue; he was the first one who had nearly returned her affections.

She wondered how things would have differed if she hadn’t spared Zevran, if the Crow hadn’t charmed her with his smile and his delicious accent (though she could not have _killed_ the elf; she has never been a killer.  She only killed Loghain because there was no alternative, because allowing Alistair to execute the Teyrn was not an option; Loghain had killed her sister with his retreat. _I will keep you safe,_ the mantra she had whispered to Nadya all of their life, became a lie because of that man).  Perhaps she and Alistair would have stayed in the Wardens together, or perhaps she would never have gone along with Morrigan’s plan and died at the hands of the Archdemon, leaving him to rule Ferelden alone.

But Zevran _had_ charmed her.  He had captured her heart with his charm and beauty, made it hard to breathe when she was near him.  The love she felt for Zevran was burning then, and it was burning now.  It was something fierce and wild, a need to protect him even though he could protect himself.  A need to do _everything_ for him, to throw herself into the abyss or rip her way through the Fade and release the Pantheon.

Cullen was approaching her; she shifted on the bench to give him room.  He sat beside her but didn’t look at her for a moment, simply stared at the children as Zevran chased them across the garden.

“I was wondering where my helmet went,” he said, flashing a grin in her direction before shifting to face her.  “Hello, Adriana.”

Adriana arched an eyebrow at him, and she was certain that her expression was one of utter disbelief and exasperation.  “Ten years, and all I get is _hello, Adriana_? Really, Cullen?  Not even _it’s nice to see you, Ana,_ or _what a lovely daughter you have, Warden._ No, of course not!” she snorted.  “ _Hello_.  I’m not sure what I expected from _you_ of all people.  Not after you sprinted away because I simply flirted with you.”

Cullen blushed — that, at least, had not changed — and chuckled a little, lifting one hand to rub the back of his neck.  A nervous tic, and one she recognized from her time in Kinloch Hold.  “You were always far too forward for a Circle Mage,” he said quietly, “You terrified me.”

She snorted, and he outright laughed.  “You _still_ terrify me,” he confessed, “Although now my fear is borne from your choice in husbands and the fact that you could probably kill me without using magic.”

Ana looked to Zevran, now play-dueling with Kieran, and grinned.  “I scare you because I married _Zevran_?  He is, undoubtedly, the worst assassin I have heard of.”

The last sentence was said loudly enough for said assassin to hear, and the Antivan looked up with a characteristic sparkle in his golden eyes.  “Ah,” he called back, “But you _have_ heard of me!”

A bark of a laugh leapt from Adriana’s throat, and she rolled her eyes at his statement just as Kieran landed a blow on Zevran’s arm.  “Keep your eye on your opponent, Zev!  Isn’t that what you always used to tell me?”

“Forgive me, my dear Warden,” the assassin replied, “You see, I was distracted by your everlasting beauty.  Also — ” and here he waggled his eyebrows at Cullen, “ — the good Commander has proven _very_ captivating.”

Ana scoffed; Cullen blushed a fierce red and dropped his face into his hands, muttering “Maker’s Breath” under his breath.

“He’s a shameless flirt,” she reassured him, “He does that to every person he meets.  You should have heard the amount of times that he asked Alistair if he had any Antivan in him.”

Cullen’s brow furrowed; “King Alistair doesn’t have any Antivan in him.”

Adriana adopted a terrible Antivan accent, asking, “Well, would he _like_ some in him?”

Cullen made a choking noise, and the Hero of Ferelden wasn’t sure if it was from laughter or disgust.  _She_ laughed; it had been funny then, and it was funny now.  And then she grinned at Cullen, and he smiled back.  “You know,” she said, “Al told me about your experiences at Halam’shiral.  I hope you know that Lady Montilyet is planning a ball to celebrate my arrival — perhaps you should prepare for that.”

“What?  I swear — I can’t believe that I had _no_ say in this!” Cullen had blanched at her words; now he stood and began to walk away.  She assumed that he was going to argue with Josephine about the necessity of a ball.

“I wish you luck, my friend,” she called after his retreating back, stifling laughter.

\--

In the chaos that would follow the ball, Al would place any and all blame on Joesphine.  It _was_ her fault, after all.  It was _she_ who had planned the mess; it was she who had set in motion the chain of events that rather ruined Al’s calm week.

The ball itself was fine at first.  Al was dressed in Orlesian finery, an emerald gown with golden accents that had been made especially for her in Val Royeaux.  Two years ago, she would have felt vastly uncomfortable in the gown; it would have been ill-fitting on her then.  But now she had grown into her titles, and as such wore the gown as comfortably as she wore her armor.  She mingled with the Orlesian nobility for a few minutes, shared a quick exchange with Adriana (who had Zevran on her arm; Al had no idea where all of the children were, or who was watching them.  Hopefully not Cole.), and then escaped to the edge of the great hall.

She leaned against the wall and exhaled loudly, scrubbing a hand over her face.

“I was under the impression that you liked balls,” said Cullen’s voice, shocking her utterly and making her jump in fright.  The Commander instantly apologized, but she just grinned and assured him that the apology was unnecessary.

“I like _dancing,_ ” she corrected him, “I hate politics.  I’m decent at this Game, yes, but I hate it nevertheless.”

Cullen laughed at that.  “Where is Fen’Harel?” he asked, evidently surprised that she did not have the Dread Wolf at her side.  Al shrugged gracefully, then folded her hands in front of her waist.  “Last I saw him, he was excelling at the Game and throwing off every noble who wrote him off as a knife-ear” — she bit out the word, brow creasing for a moment — “At Halam’shiral.  And you?” she asked him, “Have you been reliving your time at the Winter Palace?”

“Thankfully, no,” Cullen chuckled, “My night has been mercifully quiet.  Actually, I have been rather preoccupied in making sure that no assassins attempt to take your life.”

Al instantly began scanning the crowd, wondering who would be brave (or foolish) enough to make an attempt on her life.  The only _obvious_ assassin that she saw was Zevran, and he was still by Adriana’s side, flashing smiles at giggling Orlesian women.  Then again, Cullen had much more experience with assassinations than she did.

“The only assassin I see is a certain Antivan, and it isn’t my life he’s trying to take,” she quipped.  Cullen chuckled, shook his head, and folding his arms across his chest.

“Ooh, is this _Commander Rutherford_?” asked a woman with a very strong Orlesian accent.  Al blinked in surprise, jerking her head to look at the newcomer.  Cullen already seemed uncomfortable, his face settling into a neutral expression as the Orlesian woman grinned at him.  “May I have this dance, _messere_?”

“No, no thank you,” he sighed, and Al caught the way that his fingers tightened on the material of his dress uniform.  The woman let out a loud laugh, and Al gasped in shock.  She _knew_ that laugh — she’d heard it in the Fade, as they fought through hordes of spiders and demons.

“ _Hawke_?” she asked, eyebrows shooting up in amazement, “What are you doing?”

She’d assumed that Hawke would be hiding out with Anders somewhere, avoiding all contact with Orlesians in the hopes that nobody would begin demanding justice for the destruction of the Kirkwall chantry.  And yet Hawke was here, in disguise, pretending to be an Orlesian?  It baffled Al, baffled her even moreso than the fact that Hawke’s accent was very convincing.

Hawke laughed again, removing her mask and focusing her intense blue eyes on Cullen.  “You should have seen your face!” she crowed, punching Cullen in the arm, “You thought I was _serious_!”  Then she turned to Al, gesturing with the garish mask as she spoke.  “Anders and Varric are watching the kids upstairs in your room, so I figured I could sneak in without anybody realizing that I was the infamous Champion of Kirkwall.”

Hawke was resplendent in pale green and gray, white lace adorning the ends of her sleeves and her neckline.  A silver locket laid at the hollow of her throat, and there was no blood stripe on her nose.  She almost looked the picture of a proper lady, all delicate limbs and pale flesh.

“You look beautiful!” Al exclaimed, grabbing Hawke’s hands in her own, “My goodness, where did you find that gown?  Look at you, it brings out the color of your eyes so well! — ”

Hawke laughed again, gripping Al’s slender fingers tightly.  Her hands were covered in white leather that ended just above her wrists, soft gloves that were truly a masterpiece.

“Thank you,” Hawke told her, “I think I stole it from an Orlesian; I just found it hanging outside a bedchamber.”

“You _stole_ it?” Cullen’s voice was all incredulity, his eyebrows up high enough to nearly disappear into his hairline.  Hawke nodded and he shook his head, sighing lightly.

“Ooh! Frilly cakes!”

Al grabbed three off of a passing tray, proffering them to her company.  Hawke took one, but Cullen tried to deny the offer.

“Come on, Cully-Wully,” Hawke cooed in a voice that would have been mocking if it wasn’t coming from, well, Hawke, “Take a cake.  Don’t upset the Herald, now — look, she’s pouting!”

Indeed, Al had broken out the puppy dog eyes and pout as she brandished the cake at him.  Cullen held strong for a few magnificent seconds, and then broke down and took the cake.  “I think Adriana and Leliana are reuniting,” Al commented, spying the new Divine conferring with the Warden in bright tones.  “Oh, look, there’s Morrigan!”

She would have waved to the apostate, but Hawke stiffened beside her and Al’s nerves went on high alert.

“Well, shit,” Hawke muttered, and practically threw her mask back onto her face.

“What is it?” Al asked, cursing to herself when she remembered that she hadn’t brought any weapons; there weren’t even any concealed beneath her truly magnificent skirts.  She would be useless in a fight, unless she could summon the energy to open a rift over whomever had Hawke in such a frenzy.

“Not what,” Hawke said grimly, “ _Who._ Look at who just walked in the door — the man without the mask.”

Al followed Hawke’s directions, catching sight of an auburn haired man with eyes that were a blue almost as bright as Hawke’s.

“Sebastian Vael,” the Champion hissed, “If he finds out I’m here — well, it won’t take him long to puzzle out that Anders is nearby.”  There was a tightness to her voice, the tightness caused by fear of a person who was once a friend but is now an enemy.  The fear that you wouldn’t be able to kill them if it came down to it; the fear that you still cared for them.

“And then he won’t stop until Anders is dead,” Hawke finished.  “I have to go — if he asks, I was Lady Celeste Peregrine.  That’s the name I’ve been using.  I need to warn Anders!”

And then Hawke was gone, and the prince of Starkhaven was picking his way through the crowd, heading straight towards where Al and Cullen stood.  She still felt on edge, like she’d been shot through with lightning and every bit of her had come alive.  Glancing at Cullen, she saw that he looked equally on edge.

She sidled closer to her, more for the sake of support than anything else.  Her whole frame was filled with tension, like a lute string tightened to the point of snapping.  They stood side by side as Sebastian moved steadily closer, until Al finally took Cullen’s arm in an attempt to calm herself.

“Lady Inquisitor,” Sebastian greeted, “And Knight-Captain Rutherford.  How have you been?”

“I am no longer Knight-Captain,” Cullen said coolly.  Al intervened; she may not _enjoy_ politics, but she had at least some talent with them.  And they did not need to piss off the leader of Starkhaven.

“Commander Rutherford left the Templars to join the Inquisition,” she interjected, and then, “Whoever we were before, we are now the Inquisition.”

“Is that the excuse that allowed you to harbor Charlotte Hawke?” he asked mildly.  Al let out a light laugh, one that was forced but nevertheless necessary.  The trick to politics, she had discovered, was to not let on how nervous you were.

“We required Lady Hawke’s expertise on the darkspawn Corypheus,” she answered, “After we parted ways, the Grey Wardens asked for her help to rebuild.”

“And did she perhaps have the criminal Anders with her?”

Ah, there it was.  Time to see if she could lie well when there was a life on the line; when it was a husband and a father who would live or die by her ability to mislead.

“I am afraid that I did not have the privilege of meeting Anders.”

Sebastian laughed; it was a full-bodied thing, in which he tossed his head back and squeezed his eyes shut.  Al let out an uneasy giggle of her own, when Sebastian’s laughter abruptly stopped.

“Truly, you are strange to use a word such as _privilege_ to describe a meeting with a wanted apostate, Inquisitor.  Especially coming from one who is so close with a Templar.”

That was when Al remembered that her arm was entwined with Cullen’s, and she jerked away from the implications of the prince’s statement — and, consequently, the comfort of her close proximity to the Commander.

“Cullen and I are not — ” she spluttered, thrown by his assumption.  Were _those_ the rumors?  She had thought that they had preferred to pair her and Dorian, but it seemed that at least a few fancied the Dalish elf with the ex-Templar.  Where was Fen’Harel?  She desperately needed him; she needed to know that he was there during this trying time.  She searched the crowd for him, but it was in vain.

“Your highness,” Cullen said at almost the exact same time, “The Inquisitor is with another man — ”

“ _Emma lath?”_

She practically beamed from relief, turning to her elvhen lover.  “Fen!  Prince Vael, this is Fen’Harel, my… _vhenan_.  Fen, dear, this is Prince Sebastian Vael, of Starkhaven.  He was just asking us about how we worked with Hawke to stop the Gray Wardens.”

Fen’Harel picked up on the false smile she had pasted on immediately; she saw the flash of recognition in his gray-blue eyes.  “A pleasure,” he said, extending his hand for Sebastian to take, “Is the ball to your liking, your highness?”

“Very much so,” Sebastian said, giving his hand a firm shake.  Then he turned back to Al and said in a voice so soft it was dangerous, “I know that Hawke is here, Inquisitor.  You cannot hide her from me.”

Al briefly considered playing dumb, keeping up the charade that she was not, in fact, harboring a fugitive, but instead she just sighed.  “And here I thought I would actually be able to _enjoy_ a party, for once.”  She turned her gaze to the Dread Wolf, nodding to show him that she would be alright left alone with Sebastian.  “If you could go gather our special visitors and bring them to my quarters?  We will join you in a moment.”

Before he could walk away, she grabbed his hand and squeezed once; her lover squeezed back and she offered him a small smile before releasing him to carry out her request.  Once again, she was alone with Cullen and Sebastian, standing on the outskirts of a party that Josephine had planned to a perfection.  She sighed; she had, for once, been looking forward to a ball.

“I daresay that the public will be most displeased with Adriana’s disappearance,” she said finally, directing her comment toward Cullen rather than Sebastian, “The Orlesians do love their heroes.”

Al watched as Fen weaved through the crowd, picking out Adriana and Zevran and leading them towards her quarters.  After another few moments, she nodded to Sebastian.  “This way, Your Highness.  Commander.”

If Cullen was surprised that she was asking him to accompany them, he didn’t show it.  As a group, Al in the lead, they made their way out of the Great Hall and to her quarters.  The whole way, her body betrayed her nerves; she was still strung high, every muscle tense in preparation for what might come.  If violence occurred, would she be able to get her weapons in time?

She hoped so; she didn’t want to fight, but she would need to end any attacks quickly, before too much damage was done.  She didn’t trust Sebastian not to attack Anders; she didn’t trust that Justice wouldn’t explode at the sight of the Prince.  She was, also, afraid that Cullen would attack Anders at the first sign of Justice-ness.

She eased open the door to her room; Zevran and Adriana were at the top of the stairs.  As she made her way up, she spotted Anders sitting behind her desk, Hawke’s hand on his shoulder.  Varric and the kids were sitting on her overlarge bed, and Solas was leaning against the door to her balcony.

Sebastian spotted Anders; Anders caught sight of Sebastian and stiffened despite Hawke’s comforting hand.

“ _Maleficarum_ ,” Sebastian hissed, hand going for what Al assumed was a knife.

“No!” Al yelled, throwing out her arm in an attempt to stop him.

Anders eyes went bright blue.

“Shit!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can see, Hawke is a horrible influence on both her child and Al. Varric will probably regret introducing them at some point.


	4. Of Henbane Steeped in Chaff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Red and yellow flowers peeked out from a wreath of elfroot leaves, and Al lifted it from his hands; he stilled as she raised it to settle in his hair.
> 
> 'A fine crown for my lion,' she said with a laugh, pausing in order to smile up at him; he felt his heart still in his chest at her close proximity."

“Stop!”

She’d thrown herself up the stairs in front of Sebastian, using every skill in her arsenal to get to Anders before Sebastian.  Al ended up between them, her arms thrown wide to keep them apart.  There was a rush in her head and her heart pounded in her chest, loud enough that she felt everybody could hear it.  Other than her shout, the room was as silent as a grave, the only sound the crackle of magic across Anders’ skin.

Sebastian was still prepared to strike, his dagger aloft in one hand, and Al stared him down with every bit of authority she possessed.

Adriana, too, had leapt into action, and she had summoned her spirit blade to hold at the ready.  There was a fire in her gray eyes, a rage that she was directing at the prince of Starkhaven.

“Do not _touch_ him,” she warned, and there was danger in her voice, a deadly calm that was masking an underlying anger.  Cullen, to Al’s surprise, had not drawn his sword, though his hand still rested on the hilt, and his eyes were firmly on Anders.  Zevran and Varric were sitting with the children, Varric keeping a hand on Philippa’s shoulder while Zevran tried to distract Bethany.  But the little girl would not be placated, her eyes trained firmly on her father, ice crawling slowly up her hands.

“Bethany,” Hawke called to her daughter, “Sweetheart, breathe.”

Sebastian’s eyes flicked to Bethany, and Al heard the catch in Hawke’s breath as her old friend laid eyes upon her daughter.

“Mama,” Bethy whimpered, and Adriana’s gaze seemed to intensify.  It was clear that, should Sebastian make another move, Ana would kill him where he stood.

“Yours?” Sebastian asked, locking eyes with Hawke.  Al looked to the Champion, who locked eyes with Sebastian and nodded.  The prince seemed to deflate, dropping his weapon, and Hawke began whispering in Anders’ ear.  As she did so, the blue light crackling across the mage’s fair skin began to fade, until Justice retreated and it was just Anders, sagging in Hawke’s arms.

Anders, upon seeing his terrified daughter, pulled away from Hawke and rushed to the bed, holding Bethany tight to him and whispering in her ear.  As he held the little girl close, she seemed to calm, and the ice melted away, revealing small hands that dug themselves into his feathery pauldrons.

It seemed that everything was going to be okay, but Al did not relax.  She clenched her hands by her side, wishing for her weapons; Zevran cleared his throat.

“Inquisitor,” he began, and then stilled as Al’s gaze flashed to him.

“What is it?”

“Ah,” he said, “It is your hands.  They are… on fire.”

Al looked down at her hands — flame wreathed them, blazing up her arms.  Intrigued and slightly terrified, she turned her hands over and gazed at them, her jaw dropping.

“You’re a mage,” Anders commented, “How?”

“No, I’m not!” she exclaimed, “I’ve never… how could I have had magic and never known it before now?”

“It was not uncommon in the time of Arlathan,” Fen’Harel began, “for elvhen to struggle at harnessing their connection to the Fade until they had matured.”  He smiled at her, and his grey-blue eyes crinkled.  “It is possible, _vhenan,_ that you have elvhen blood within you.”

“What, so I’m immortal like you?” she asked, wrinkling her nose a little, “Will I lose all of my hair as well?”

Cullen chuckled; she heard the deep rumble of it and saw the smile that hitched up further on the right than the left.  Fen’Harel regarded her with a flat stare, apparently unamused (although the twitch of his lips betrayed otherwise).

“What do you mean, _like you?_ ” Adriana demanded, fire still visible in her eyes despite her sword being away.

“He’s the Dread Wolf,” Hawke explained, “That probably means something to you; it didn’t to me.”

The warden blinked, which was not the reaction Al was expecting.  Not from righteously angry, terrifyingly dangerous Adriana.

“The Dread Wolf?” she asked, looking at Anders, “Really?”

The mage offered her a shrug; “That’s what they told us, Commander.”

Some fond smile flashed across Adriana’s face at the title, hinting at a past Al knew almost nothing about.  “Not anymore,” she muttered, and then, looking to Fen’Harel, “If you’re the Dread Wolf, why are you bald?”

“What?”

“Well, don’t you turn into a wolf?” Adriana pressed, “Since you have no hair, does that translate into a lack of fur? Are you a strange, hairless wolf?  Or does that not matter?”

Zevran stared at his wife; the rest of the room followed suit.  Then, the ex-Crow burst out laughing.

Adriana whipped her head around to glare at him, a look like ice that would have frozen anybody else.  But the elf continued laughing, a loud chuckle that filled Al’s room with warmth.

“ _Zevran_!” Ana yelled, “What are you laughing at!”

“Oh, _mi amor,_ ” he told her, “It is only — the Inquisitor’s hands are still on fire!”

\--

He found her in the garden the next morning, where she sat on a bench with Bethany and Philippa, singing softly to them in what he assumed was elven as she braided their hair with her deft hands.  Though he could not understand the words, they sounded familiar, and her voice carried the tune well through the air of the garden.  She had a deeper voice than most women, a voice that allowed her to sing low notes, but when she sang high notes they soared through the air, ringing like chantry bells.  He would call her a lark, but that was an unfair comparison.  He had never heard such a beautiful voice, free and clear and easy in the way the melody fell from her lips.

The sound of her song brought a flash of memory to the forefront of his mind; delicate hands, steady and small, holding his own as they shook for the want of lyrium.  That sweet voice, singing that same song when the frustration became too much and he’d thrown the case of lyrium away from him, watched it shatter inches from her head.  He had told her of his past, of his terrible deeds, and she’d just smiled at him (there was such a terrible sadness in that smile; had she been anybody else, he would have wondered why it was so heartbreaking) and whispered “If it means anything, I like who you are now” in a way that broke his heart to hear it.  She had been genuinely worried for him, had held sympathy for his plight and for what had happened to him.

Saying that she was a _good_ person seemed a disservice to her; she seemed to hold so little hatred in her heart for anybody, even when they had differing viewpoints.  When Sera belittled the Dalish, Al had taken it in stride, let it slide off of her with a flash of a smile and a twinkle of her green eyes.  She befriended Sera anyway, played pranks and managed to make the other elf care about her.  Or with Vivienne; they disagreed fundamentally on the merits of the Circle, but Al genuinely respected the older woman, and had somehow managed to convince Vivienne to like her in return.  Cullen doubted that there were any who would dare belittle the Inquisitor in the presence of Madame de Fer.

It was impossible _not_ to care about her.

Even when she _did_ hate someone, when she faced Corypheus or the elf-hating nobles or a threat to those she cared about, she dealt out retribution with grace and an admirably creative flair, easily inventing ways to punish her enemies without killing them (except in the case of Corypheus; he had not _been_ at that battle, but Cassandra had told him how the Inquisitor had snarled and, with a twist of her hand, opened a rift _inside_ of the darkspawn).  _Never_ had she ordered an execution; it just wasn’t her way.

As soon as she saw him, her countenance lit as if the sun lay beneath her skin, and her fingers stilled in Bethany’s hair.  “Cullen!” she called, smiling brilliantly.

“Good morning, Inquisitor,” he said, and then, bowing his head at Hawke’s daughter, “Lady Bethany.”

The little girl giggled, waving at him with excitement clear in her eyes.  Adriana’s daughter smiled, a shy little thing, and ducked her head, shrinking backwards in her seat.  Briefly, he wondered how two parents whom were so outgoing could have produced such a shy wisp of a child.  “This is Philippa,” she said, “Adriana’s daughter.  Phil, kid, this is Cullen.  He knew your momma a long time ago.”

“You look just like your mother,” he told her, and a flush spread across the girl’s copper skin.  She turned to Al and tugged at the Inquisitor’s tunic, a light green garment edged with yellow thread.  It left her arms bare, and she had covered her shoulders with a sheer shawl, dyed dark green and embroidered with violet flowers.

“Aunt Al,” the girl began in a voice that sounded remarkably like Adriana’s (except for the accent; that was a strange thing, a mix of the Warden-Commander’s brogue and the characteristic Antivan sound from Zevran), “Can you teach me how to make a crown like that?”

She pointed to a ring of leaves and flowers that adorned Al’s head, nestled among the soft waves of her brown hair.  For as long as he had known her, the Inquisitor had kept it cropped short, carelessly messy in a way that managed to keep her beauty obvious.  Now, he found it strange to see how it fell past her chin, nearly brushing her shoulders.

“Of course!” Al exclaimed, and then, “Cullen, would you like to join us?”

He nearly declined; he still had work to do, after all, and he had probably taken enough of a break.  But Fen’Lethal was looking at him with eagerness in her bright eyes, and he couldn’t refuse her.

So he sat beside them, though Philippa dashed away to Al’s other side and forced the Inquistor closer to him; as a result, the four of them were squashed onto the single bench with hardly any room to breathe.  As Al spoke in her light voice, showing them how to weave the flowers and leaves together into the circlets (which already numbered enough to form a pile on the ground in front of her), she frequently stopped to help the two little girls if they got stuck — as well as Cullen.

For his hands, so suited for wielding sword and shield, or for writing out the reports that seemed to encompass the majority of his job, seemed unable to complete the task that Al had put before him.  No matter what he did, he squashed the delicate flowers, and frustration reared within him.  He was ready to give up when slender hands settled over his, stilling his angry movements.

“It’s alright,” she said softly, guiding his hands with her own as they went through the motions, keeping her fingers in line with his until he could perform the task on his own, “See?”

She offered him one of her lopsided grins, removing her hands and allowing him to continue.  “It isn’t hard, only different from what you usually do.  All it takes is a little change of vision, and…”

She brought her hands back, helping him finish the crown, and then shifted her hands so that the circlet was cradled in their palms.  Red and yellow flowers peeked out from a wreath of elfroot leaves, and Al lifted it from his hands; he stilled as she raised it to settle in his hair.

“A fine crown for my lion,” she said with a laugh, pausing in order to smile up at him; he felt his heart still in his chest at her close proximity.

 _No,_ he told himself firmly, _stop._  He didn’t care for her like that.  He _couldn’t_.  She was the Inquisitor, and she loved Solas. _Not_ him.  He just needed to forget it.  Forget the way that the sun illuminated her green eyes, making them appear like faceted gemstones.  He needed to ignore the way that her fingers had lingered in his hair and the soft smile that curled at her lips.  He wanted to say… he wasn’t sure what he wanted to say.  _I care about you_?  _You are the most beautiful woman I have ever met_?

“Where did you learn to make these?” he asked instead.  Al moved again, removing her hands from his head and starting work on another crown.

“It’s a Dalish custom,” she told him, slender fingers easily maneuvering the delicate stems.  “We use them for celebrations, or just as an accessory.”

She shrugged, and the fluid movement dislodged her shawl, revealing the smooth expanse of one pale shoulder.  Cullen reached up and adjusted the fabric so that it sat properly once more, and she murmured her thanks before resuming her work.

“Aunt Al, Uncle Cullen, lookit!” Bethany exclaimed, holding up the crown she had just completed.  It was lopsided, slightly crushed, and quite sparse in sections, but Al still beamed and clapped her hands together.  Cullen tried to smile as well, but he had been thrown by being called _Uncle Cullen_.  He had never thought of _children_ , not with the way his life had been, but now…

He looked at Bethany, and wondered what it would be like to have a daughter of his own, one with blonde curls and green eyes.  Then he stopped that line of thought dead in its tracks.

“Good job, Bethy!  Add it to the pile; Madame de Fer likes violets, I’m sure she’ll adore it.”

Cullen tried to imagine Vivienne in a flower crown; he failed miserably.

“I made this one for _Babae_ ,” Philippa announced, holding another wreath aloft.

A few more minutes passed, and then Philippa and Bethany ran off to play with Morrigan’s son.  Cullen and Al were left on the bench, no longer crushed together; neither of them moved regardless.  As they sat, she continued to weave flowers together.  Cullen settled back in his seat, watching her work in silence.

“How can you just sit here like this?” she asked him suddenly, stopping her work and wiping the flowers from her lap.  She regarded him with those intense green eyes, but he didn’t miss the apprehension in them.  She was _scared_.  But why?

Doubt rose within him, poisonous and choking, whispering that he had ruined everything, that he was too rude, too angry, too broken.  That she was scared because of _him_.

“Like what?” he asked quietly, trying to make his gaze, his _presence_ , as soft as possible.

Al’s face had gone white, her lips pressed together as if she was afraid to let anything fall from them, fingers gripping the fabric of her trousers tightly, her knuckles white.

“Aren’t you _afraid_?” she asked bitterly, “I’m what has hurt you most.”

Everything clicked into place, and it took all that he had not to pull her into an embrace and wipe away her worries and fears.  There were tears in her eyes, and he wanted to make them disappear.  He wanted her to smile again… he wanted…

“You have never hurt me,” he told her, “I am not afraid of you.”

She shook her head.

“I’m a mage.  I’m _dangerous_.  I’m… I’m…”

“You’re my _friend_ ,” he corrected and, despite his better judgement, took her hands in his own.  “I am not afraid of you, Al.  You will learn to use your magic, just as you learned to use the Anchor.  There is nothing to be afraid of.  You know many mages; any of them could help to teach you.  Vivienne, Dorian, Warden Mahariel, Hawke, Fen’Harel — even _Anders_.”

She stared at him, her green eyes brimming with tears, and then, to his surprise, the Inquisitor threw her arms around him and pressed her face into his breastplate. 

“Thank you,” she mumbled into his chest as he hesitantly wrapped his arms around her, “For everything.”

“No,” he said, “Thank _you_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I was putting off posting this, solely because I had a very clear direction I wanted to steer this in, but I wanted to see what Bioware was doing with Trespasser first. Now that Trespasser is out, and I have read all of the spoilers I can get my hands on, I have decided to continue in my original direction (which, coincidentally, lines up with Trespasser. TAKE THAT BIOWARE I GUESSED YOUR SECRETS).
> 
> I promised myself that I wouldn't write a love triangle, but I keep breaking my own promises. I'm a terrible person, really, I am.


	5. Your Breast Is Hot, Your Anger Dark and Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Multiple reunions of old friends, and nightmares of the magical variety.

Al _really_ wanted to tell someone to fuck off, but, as the Inquisitor, she had to refrain from that.  By _someone,_ of course, she meant _Sebastian Vael_.

The prince of Starkhaven apparently wanted to find and apologize to Hawke, but the Champion of Kirkwall had holed herself up with her family in some distant room.  Al, who understood precisely _why_ Hawke was avoiding Sebastian, refused to tell him where they were.

Hawke was thankful for this; she was still fuming from what had happened at the ball, and the three of them were shaken from the close call.  Ever since Kirkwall, she had done her best to keep her family safe, to keep them from Sebastian.  But all of that had been undone in one moment, the illusion of safety torn from her grasp.  She had almost lost Anders.  Anders, her husband; Anders, father of her daughter.

Bethany had almost lost her papa.

Still, she couldn’t stay holed up forever.  She had to get out at some point, else she would go stir-crazy.  Hawke had never been one to sit at home or avoid her problems, and that was precisely what she was doing.  So she went out to the stables, deciding that a visit to the horses would do her a world of good.  It always brought her back to her youth, to the horse that her father had owned.  She had adored that horse, loved brushing it and feeding it apples.

She picked up an apple from a nearby bag and held it out to the nearest horse, which nickered softly and took it from her hand.  She rubbed the horse’s head gently, smiling at it.

“Hawke…”

The smile disappeared, and she stiffened instantly.  Slowly, she turned around to face Sebastian, a scowl settling onto her features.

For once, the prince of Starkhaven looked almost… apologetic.

“Hello, Sebastian,” she said stiffly, crossing her arms across her chest and offering him only a raised eyebrow.

“I’m…” he began, but she cut him off with a raised hand and her biting words.

“Sorry?” she finished, and steps towards him.  She was so _tired_ of being afraid, of wondering if her former friend would be the death of Anders.  “You know, Seb, we never told Bethany who was after us.  Why we had to move so much.  Oh, we told her about Templars, but she didn’t know that _Uncle Sebastian_ was the reason her mama and papa were always looking over their shoulders.  I’d hoped…”

She stopped herself with a shuddering inhale; she’d let _Seb_ slip from her lips as if they still cared for each other, as if they were still the dear friends they had once been.  But now the nickname held only bitterness, regret – not regret for sparing Anders, but regret that Sebastian’s temper was as it was.  Regret that he had held onto his anger for so long.

“I had _hoped_ ,” she continued, “That your temper would cool.  That, someday, we would be able to walk into Starkhaven and Bethany would be able to visit my best friend.”

Her voice was quavering, cracking, but there was so much _anger_ hidden in those words.  For all that Sebastian had a temper, Hawke’s was worse.  She’d had such dreams for the future, back in Kirkwall.  Before the Chantry.  She’d dreamed of a child, a steady home, bringing her son or daughter to visit her friends — to visit Sebastian.  She had been close to him, somehow; the only one who meant more to her as a friend was Varric.  And she’d _known_ , somehow, that Sebastian would be the best uncle a child could ask for.

“It was foolish,” she replied, “But I still hoped.  Dreamt.  I could imagine what life _might_ have been like.  But now… she’s just going to _fear_ you, Sebastian.  She won’t leave Anders’ side.  She’s not afraid for herself, even; she’s afraid for him.”

“Like mother, like daughter,” he said softly, and Hawke almost smiled.

They stood in silence for a moment, simply looking at each other.  He hadn’t changed much; still clean-shaven, still handsome and solid.  Still the same height as her; she had always been tall for a woman.

“Though all before me is shadow, yet shall the Maker be my guide.  I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond.  For there is no darkness in the Maker’s Light, and nothing that He has wrought shall be lost.”

It was Trials 1:14, the first part of the Chant he’d heard her recite.  A peace offering.  Her heart warmed in her chest, and she countered with an earlier portion of Trials:

“Maker, though the darkness comes upon me, I shall embrace the light.  I shall weather the storm.  I shall endure.  What you have created, no one can tear asunder.”

He smiled at her; she allowed herself to smile back.

“I have missed you,” Sebastian confessed, and the Champion threw herself into his arms, burying her head into his shoulder.

“My friend,” she said, “I have missed you more than I can say.”

And she had; she had missed their recitations of the Chant while they were on the road, the groans from their friends as their choices grew more and more obscure until Hawke was pulling lines she’d learned from Chanter Devons as a child: _And the stars stood still, the winds did quiet, and all animals of earth and air held their breath…_

Eventually they’d gone through the entire Chant, exhausted every last line until Hawke could now recite the blighted thing in her sleep.

“I am sorry,” he said finally, “I am sorry I allowed my anger to come between us.  I am sorry I could not support you.”

“I’m sorry I was so angry,” Hawke told him, “I said things I didn’t completely mean.”

 _The Chantry stood and watched while my people suffered!_ You _stood and watched!_

She had been so cruel to him; she had contributed to the rage that had festered between them.  She could remember flirting with him just to watch him get flustered, but anything that might have been between them had long since faded.  She had never loved Sebastian, not as anything other than a friend.  A brother.

She’d lost her entire family; Her father, then Bethany, then Carver to the Templars, and then her mother.  And so she’d built a new family from her friends, surrounded herself with the people she had met in the hellhole that was Kirkwall.  Varric, Isabela, Aveline.  Anders, Fenris, Merrill.  _Sebastian._   The two of them could never have been anything more than friends; their tempers were too great, their views too different.  They could respect such differences usually, but there was always a time when one would say or do something and the other would have to retaliate.

“We were both in the wrong,” Sebastian said, “Now, shall we try this reunion again?”

She pulled away, running a hand through her short hair.  “Hello, Sebastian.  It’s been a long time.”

“Hello, Hawke.  How have you been?”

\--

“Anders.”

He hadn’t heard her say his name in over ten years. Not since he left the Wardens.  It was a fine morning, the sun just clearing the outer walls as he played with his cat.

He turned around, lifting Warden-Commander Pufflepaws into his arms as he met Adriana’s gaze.

“Warden-Commander,” he addressed, and the elf shook her head with a soft sigh.

“I’m not your Commander anymore, Anders.  I’m just Ana again.  Like when we were young.”

 _Like when we were young._ Back in the Circle.  Memories flashed through his mind; a little red-haired girl, face bare and eyes bright, giggling at him during the Chantry service.

_“No, Ana, you shouldn’t — the Templars will be wary of anyone who associates with him!”_

_“Well, that’s stupid.  Why?”_

_“Because they don’t want anyone knowing how easy it is to get out.”_

_The dark-haired boy jumped, but the redhead grinned at him.  “Hello!  I’m Adriana.  Jowan calls me Ana, though.”_

_The boy — Jowan — offered a nervous smile, and then ran off.  Ana scoffed.  “He’s afraid of you.  He thinks the Templars will hurt him if he talks to you.  But I’m not afraid.”_

“Ana,” he smiled, “That will take some getting used to.”

She smiled back at him, and for a moment she looked fourteen again, young and idealistic and prepared to do anything for her family.  She would _still_ do anything for her family, for her friends.

“Not as much getting used to as you being a father,” she laughed, and then, “Your daughter is currently with Dorian, playing with the Mabari puppies that you and Hawke bought.”

“And I have Warden-Commander Pufflepaws,” Anders said.  The kitten meowed, butting her head against his chest and purring.  Adriana laughed, and reached out to pet the kitten’s head.  The purring grew louder, and her slate-grey eyes softened.

And then they heard the screams.

\--

Al _hated_ nightmares.  But since she’d become mysteriously magical, since she’d started harnessing her powers, they’d gotten worse.  And _weird_.  What was before just bad memories made worse was now flashes of forgotten temples, the world burning, the Breach returned, her hand trying to kill her.  They were awful.

This time, she’d been running through an elven temple, chasing a hooded figure that looked suspiciously like Abelas.  But when she caught him, when he turned around, it wasn’t the vallaslin of Mythal that was inked on his features.  Instead, it was a design she didn’t recognize, one that she had never seen.

And yet, somehow, she knew that this was her father — she could see it in the lines of his face, the emerald of his eyes, the sweep of brown hair that had fallen across his forehead.

The world spun, changed; she was standing in front of the temple, a towering façade of smooth stone that, in the light of the fading sun, seemed to be gold.  The gods were depicted in paint on the stone; paint that had not faded despite the length of time that must have passed since they had first been created.

And then, before her eyes, Fen’Harel appeared.

And the world exploded, green light erupting from the temple.

She awoke screaming, fire erupting along her skin and catching the bed alight.  Beside her, Fen’Harel jerked awake at the sound, and she threw herself to the other side of the room, pulling the Fade around her as her _vhenan_ had taught her.  She was still burning, terror stopping her from gaining control.  And she was still screaming, even as Solas froze the flames on the bed, even as Cullen and Hawke burst into the room, both with weapons at the ready.

It had seemed so _real_.  It had seemed so real, and now she couldn’t calm herself enough.  The memory of the explosion clung to her, made her unable to look Fen’Harel in the eye.  _He_ had caused it.  Or would cause it; she didn’t know.

“Inquisitor!” Cullen yelled, and there was panic in his voice that made her screams descend into sobs.  She couldn’t stop the fire, couldn’t stop it; he’d think that she was a demon, she would be the cause of his nightmares for years to come.

“ _Vhenan_ ,” Fen’Harel said, walking towards her with hands outstretched; she screamed again, crossing her arms in front of her face in sheer terror.  She could barely think; she was acting solely on instinct, and instinct was telling her that she could _not_ have him there.  He couldn’t help her.

“Go away!” she yelled, curling into herself and lashing out with one hand — fire shot towards him, and the Dread Wolf deflected it with a quickly erected barrier.

“Al,” Hawke said, voice calm and level, “I need you to breathe, okay?  Just breathe.”

She couldn’t.  Her lungs wouldn’t work, wouldn’t expand; she couldn’t breathe.  She couldn’t calm down.  There was fire everywhere, and Fen’Harel was still there, and all she could see was the explosion from her dream.

“Leave!” Hawke commanded, and the Dread Wolf stared at her in surprise.  The Champion’s eyes narrowed, raven brows drawing together, daring Fen’Harel to defy her.  “ _Now_.  You’re making it worse.”

He stormed away, past Cullen, and out of her quarters.  Hawke’s gaze flashed from Al, still on fire, to Cullen.  “I’m going to need your help, Rutherford.  Drop your sword.”

Something about her tone made him comply, and his sword clattered to the ground.  Hawke nodded, and then turned back to Al.  “Al, it’s okay.  You’re safe here.  It’s just me and Cullen.  We won’t hurt you.”

Fen’Harel was gone.  Cullen was there.  Cullen, strong.  Cullen, steady.  Cullen.

She took a deep breath; the air flooded her lungs, pushed the panic away, made her head clear, the flames go down.  Hawke stepped back and Cullen stepped forward; they shared a nod as they acted, confirmation that Cullen could handle it.  Then Hawke slipped away, retreating down the stairs, leaving the Commander alone with the shuddering Inquisitor.

“I should be made Tranquil,” was the first thing she said, head still hidden in her slender hands.  “I’m a danger to everyone around me.  I can’t… I can’t _control_ it!”

Warm arms lifted her up, cradled her to a broad chest.  He wasn’t wearing armor, just a rough-hewn shirt that she fisted her hands into as he carried her over to her sofa, settling onto it with her still held close.  The tears were back in full force, dampening the material of Cullen’s shirt.

“I should be made Tranquil,” she whimpered, pulling her face away and staring up at him, “I should… I should be…”

“Stop.”

She stuttered to a halt, staring up at him, eyes wide and filled with tears.  He was looking down at her, his hair a mess and his eyes hard, brow furrowed.  His hands slid to her wrists, gripping her tightly in his lap, not letting her move.  They simply stayed like that for a moment, silent, barely breathing.  Al’s mind struggled to form a response, struggled to do anything besides stare at him.

“But — ”

“No.”  His voice was firm, yes, but there was a softness to it now, even as his hands did not loosen their hold on her wrists.  “You will _not_ be made Tranquil.  You cannot…” he swallowed heavily, eyes flickering closed momentarily, and then he shook his head, a violent movement accompanied by a throaty growl.  “I will not allow it.”

Her heart stilled in her chest, her throat going dry: “Cullen…”

He lifted his chin; the sunlight lit his features, turned his eyes into liquid amber and his hair into spun gold.  She blinked and the last of her tears slid down her cheeks, falling between them as she bowed her head.

“I will not,” he repeated, voice a hoarse whisper, “I could not bear it.”

The words struck her, caused what felt like a physical _ache_ in her chest.  Her words failed her, her sharp tongue abandoning her as Cullen’s gaze flickered away and he swallowed again; she could not move, could not speak, could barely _think_.

“Inquisitor — Al, I…”

“ _Cullen_ …”

His lips brushed her knuckles, reverent and soft, but the touch felt like fire across her skin.

“Is everything okay?”

The arrival of Anders and Adriana sent Al flying away from Cullen, pulling out of his grip with a gasp and falling backwards onto the floor.  She saw Mahariel wince, and Al cleared her throat as if she hadn’t just been… _whatever_ she had been doing. 

She loved Fen’Harel.  She loved the Dread Wolf.  Cullen was her friend, nothing more.  Nothing more.  Nothing —

His cheeks were bright red and she was sure that hers were as well.  Anders offered her a hand and she used it to pull herself to her feet, a little unsteadily, but better than she had been doing only minutes before.  At least she wasn’t crying anymore.  At least she wasn’t on _fire_.

“We heard screaming,” he explained, “We thought… an attack…”

“I had a nightmare,” Al replied, “I caught myself on fire.”

Neither mage seemed surprised by this.  In fact, Anders nodded as if he, too, had awoken to find himself wreathed in flames before.

“So, why was Fen’Harel outside?” Adriana asked.  Al stiffened; she still didn’t understand why her dream had cast him as the villain.

“It was the dream,” she said softly, “I saw my father, and a temple, and then Fen’Harel — and he blew it up.”

“You should speak with him,” Cullen said, and Al turned her head to look at him.  He was rubbing the back of his neck with one hand, which was still tinged pink.  But the Inquisitor shook her head; something was still uneasy in her, doubt stirring up in a dark cloud.

“What if it wasn’t just a dream?” she asked, “What if it was… I don’t know, a _message_ from my father?  What if he’s planning something?  He said no more secrets, but…”

She made a frustrated noise, attempting to run a hand through her hair, but her fingers got caught in the brown mass.  The frustrated noise turned into a snarl as she pulled her hand free, a wince contorting her features as pain twinged in her scalp.

“Ask him,” Adriana said simply, as if it was that simple.  As if it was that _clear_.  But Al was afraid — afraid that she would disappoint Fen’Harel, afraid that she was wrong; afraid that she was _right._

Cullen seemed to read her mind, or perhaps her discomfort showed on her face, because he spoke next: “If he loves you, he will understand.”

Al took a deep breath, nodded, and left her quarters.

Fen’Harel was in his rotunda, hunched over at his desk.  She stilled before it, inhaling deeply as she steeled herself for what was to come.

“I need to speak with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so very sorry about the love triangle. But I can't stop myself.


	6. Through Evening's Rest You Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A talk, a wedding, and two elves who are basically high school students.

“How did the talk between you and Solas go?”

Hawke leaned onto the wall beside her, folding her arms and gazing outwards towards the horizon.  It was cold on the battlements of Skyhold, as it always was, but the Champion seemed unaffected by this.  In sharp contrast, Al was shivering in the stiff mountain wind, her shawl doing nothing to protect her from the gusts of air.

“Good.”

That was a lie, actually.  Al had shoved any and all doubts into some tiny corner of herself, hidden them deep down and assured herself that she was just being silly.  Solas had reaffirmed their ‘no secrets’ policy, and that had brought some measure of relief to her.  But why did she still feel as if there was something he was hiding?

“You know,” the dark haired mage said, turning her head just enough so that Al could see the majority of her face, “I understand how you’re feeling.  Anders kept secrets, too.  It isn’t exactly the basis for a healthy relationship, and you feel awful when you question the one you love.”

Al nodded, finally understanding the turmoil in the pit of her stomach, the awful uneasiness whenever she looked at him.  At Fen.

“I get it,” Hawke said, “They keep one secret and you can never look at them the same way again.  Anders broke my trust, and he didn’t gain it back overnight, yes?  Some people — some people wouldn’t have let him regain it at all.”

She didn’t respond; she had no idea what to say.  A lump settled in her throat and she tried to swallow past it, but there were tears leaping to her eyes that she couldn’t quite will away.

“What I’m trying to say is that he may be hiding something from you, something awful.  Or he may not.  But if he is, and if he goes through with whatever awful thing he’s hiding, you _don’t_ have to forgive him.”  Was Al imagining it, or were there tears in the Champion’s blue eyes?  Hawke was not the crying type; Al had always worn her heart on her sleeve, but it seemed that the other mage kept her own feelings well hidden.  “If you walk away, that doesn’t mean that you love him any less.  It doesn’t mean that he isn’t your… whatever the word you use is.  It just means that you did what you have to do.  Anders… Anders screwed up pretty badly.  There were times when I wondered how my life would have panned out if I hadn’t stuck by him.  I forgave him — but that was my choice.  You don’t have to make the same one.”

“How did you do it?” Al asked, her voice thick and barely audible from the tears she was holding back, “How did you forgive him?”

The Champion offered her only a sad smile and a shrug, turning her head to face her completely.  “He did it to free the mages — to free our people.  And I can’t help but think of it as my fault, that he got to that point.  See, I’ve always walked that line between good and evil, in that morally grey area.  Being an apostate, knowing that I would kill to keep my family safe, willing to do what it took to stay alive… that’s never really left me.  People see me as a hero, but I’ve killed people too.  Sometimes I feel like it was _me_ who taught him that the ends justify the means.  And I’m always scared, Al.  I’m always scared that they’ll take him from me.”

Hawke was trembling, hands tightening into fists on the gray stone until her knuckles turned white.  Al tried to imagine how Hawke felt, the fears she dealt with on a daily basis: Hawke had _always_ been a mage.  Hawke had always had to fear Templars, Hawke had lost her sister, father, _and_ mother.  Hawke had fallen in love with a possessed mage, and had later had a magical child with him.  The poor woman had to worry daily about her family being taken from her completely.

“We never even got the chance to be _married,_ ” Hawke confessed, “With all the shit that happened, with living in Kirkwall, with being on the run… we’d talked about it, especially once we realized that I was pregnant, but it wasn’t like we could walk into a Chantry and say _Hey, can you marry us?_ ”

An idea sprang into Al’s head.  For a moment, she almost didn’t say anything.  It was insane — it was _more_ than insane.  Now was definitely not the time, not with how insane everything around them was.  But, all the same… maybe that meant it _was_ the best time.

“What if we set up a ceremony?”

\--

It was surprisingly easy to convince Sebastian to marry Anders and Hawke, and even easier to figure out a time and place.  Dorian was happily recruited into readying the groom, while Leliana and Josephine put together their considerable brilliance to figure out a dress for Hawke.

The ceremony was small, and Hawke briefly lamented how the majority of her friends were missing her wedding, but any regrets were wiped from her mind when she saw Anders.  Al, who was watching from the side as Varric led Hawke up to the altar, saw the way that the other woman’s azure eyes cleared, the way that her brow smoothed and her shoulders relaxed.  Hawke was radiant in her white gown, thrown together in less than a week by various people within Skyhold (nevertheless it was a beautiful garment, and Al could think of Charlotte Hawke as nothing less than an angel when the Champion appeared), and Anders could not seem to stop grinning.  Somebody had tailored the Inquisition’s formalwear to fit his thin frame, and Al felt a swell of pride at seeing the uniform on him.

“Before the bride and groom say their vows,” Sebastian began, once everybody was in place, “I have a few things to say.  I will start with a portion of the Chant: _Let the blade pass through the flesh, let my blood touch the ground, let my cries touch their hearts.  Let mine be the last sacrifice._ ”

“Andraste 7:12,” Cullen whispered to Al from her right.  She wasn’t surprised that he could name which part of the Chant Sebastian was quoting.

“Though I have doubted many things about Charlotte Hawke and Anders,” Sebastian continued, “I have never doubted that they were willing to sacrifice everything for their cause.  And I have respected that in Hawke for as long as I have known her; she does not give up, and she is unfailingly loyal to those she loves.  Charlotte loves every mage who has suffered beneath the Templars, and she would do anything to save them, just as she would do anything to save her brother, or Varric, or Anders.”

Charlotte beamed at Sebastian; Al had never seen such easy, unguarded joy on the mage’s face.  Sebastian’s eyes sparkled as he met her gaze, and nodded gently.  “I think of Hawke as nothing less than my dearest friend and my sister, and I am honored to marry them.  Your vows?”

Anders cleared his throat, taking Charlotte’s hands in his own.  On Al’s other side, Bethany fidgeted slightly, her eyes glued to her parents.

“I swear by the Maker and Holy Andraste to love this woman for the rest of my days.”  He spoke with a quiet conviction, love ringing clear in his tone.

“And I swear to love this man for the rest of my days,” Hawke replied, “to stand by him and fight for him, and to protect him against those who would cause him harm.”

The rings were exchanged and the ceremony ended, leaving Hawke to pull Anders off, giggling all the while.

\--

“That was a beautiful ceremony,” Adriana said, reaching over to lace her fingers with Zevran’s, “Certainly fancier than ours.  Of course, Dalish traditions aren’t exactly about opulence.”

Their wedding had been a quiet affair, conducted by a Dalish Keeper who was only too happy to assist the Hero of Ferelden.  Truth be told, Adriana had been surprised when Zevran brought up the idea of marriage.  She knew that he loved her, and she adored him, but marriage had never seemed like a Zevran sort of thing.  He had given her the earring and that was enough for her; she had long given up on the idea of marriage.  In the Circle, marriage was forbidden, and children were ripped away from mothers within moments of their birth.  She had _seen_ it happen.

They were walking along a secluded hallway, and Zevran squeezed her hand and pulled her into an alcove that was shielded by some insanely decadent Orlesian tapestry.  A breathy laugh escaped her, and she caught a flash of Zevran’s characteristic grin in the dim light which filtered in from the hallway.

“Aren’t we a little old to be sneaking around, sweet?” she whispered, brushing her thumb across the back of his hand.  She was answered with a chuckle, her husband nuzzling her neck.

“Never, _caro_.”

Zevran pulled away, releasing her hand in order to play with the earring that she wore in her right ear.  The touch tickled and Adriana jerked away with a laugh, swatting at his arm.  “You would think that we could act with propriety, seeing as we’re married, but…”

“Propriety? Me?” Zevran laughed, caging her against the wall and capturing her lips in a heated kiss, albeit a brief one.  “Surely you did not expect _me_ to exhibit proper behavior, my dear Warden.  I am, after all, an assassin.”

“And I am a dangerous apostate _and_ a savage Dalish,” she joked, cupping his jaw in her hand and pulling him forward for another brief kiss, “truly, they shouldn’t expect much from us in manners of propriety.”

\--

After ensuring that Phil and Bethy were being entertained by Dorian and Cullen, Al and Solas decided to take a walk.  It was almost awkward, Al felt, as if there were suddenly a wall between herself and Solas.

When had she started calling him Solas again?

 _When you started doubting him,_ she reminded herself, and the thought lay in the pit of her stomach and made her feel sick.

They walked in silence, neither willing nor sure how to break the quiet between them.  Al, for one, had no particular desire to navigate her current feelings, and felt that trying to understand what Solas may or may not have been hiding would only ruin her currently good mood.  And even had she _wished_ to speak, she had no idea what subject she might broach that would not end in uncomfortable territory.

They were walking by a particularly gaudy Orlesian tapestry that she didn’t remember acquiring when they heard the giggling.

Al drifted to a halt beside the depiction of a woman in a nightgown beside a unicorn, and recoiled when the laughter resolved into voices that she knew all too well.

“Sweet Maker!” she exclaimed, “Really, Ana, Zev?  Behind a _tapestry_!?”

Silence fell behind the tapestry, as if they were hoping she hadn’t _truly_ heard them.  Letting out a noise of disgust (albeit amused disgust), Al turned back to Solas, shaking her head.

“I thought that was something which only happened in Varric’s novels!”

Laughter broke out again, and she exited as fast as she could without running, a hand on Solas’ forearm dragging him along behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did NOT mean for this to take so long; I've just been struggling to write this chapter. Hopefully, however, the plot can get moving now, and I'll churn these out faster.


	7. I Hear the Moans, You Die a Thousand’s Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Al takes her friends and heads out of Skyhold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this has been a long time coming, mostly because I've spent my time writing one-shots or drabbles or worrying about school. But here it is, and hopefully updates will come a little (or a lot) faster!

“What are you doing?”

Al draped herself over his shoulder with a kind of carelessness that he knew was a farce, because she made sure not to upset the bottle of ink on his desk, nor his various papers and books.  Dorian offered her a fond smile, not that she could see it — their faces were pressed together, her pale cheek against his darker one, her arms dangling past either side of his neck.

“Writing,” he replied, “I was bored, and I thought perhaps comparing the different styles of casting among the mages present would assuage my boredom.  But with _your_ arrival, _amicus_ , I can think of some more _interesting_ things to do…”

Al snickered, dropping her chin to his shoulder and leaning against him even more.  He’d told the truth — he _had_ been writing about the various styles of casting he’d seen.  Even moreso, he’d been ruminating upon Al’s casting. 

Maybe it was because she hadn’t found her power at a young age, or maybe it was her lack of training, but Al’s casting was stilted, with none of the instinct most mages exhibited.  He knew that she was frustrated by her lack of progress — a few fireballs were all she could conjure — but the fact remained that she had come into her magic over a decade later than most mages.  Dorian’s had manifested at such a young age that he could hardly remember a time _without_ magic.  When you lived with something for so long, it became as easy as breathing.

He also knew that Al’s strengths might not lie in destruction magic.  Though she was adept with her daggers, her heart lay in piecing together things that were broken or helping those who were hurt.  Surely a better path for her would be healing — perhaps Anders could teach her.

“Have you taken down an account of my incredible failures in the area of magic?” Al asked, and her tone informed him that she was only half-joking.  The barely-concealed pain in her voice prompted him to offer up a joke, hoping that it would cheer her up.

“Rather, the way that Fen’Harel’s style rather reflects his pompous attitude.”

Al giggled at that, the sound more carefree than he’d heard in a long time.  In fact, she hadn’t sounded so lighthearted since they’d first met, since he’d suggested that she get Alexius a fruit basket.  Too often, his friend was bogged down by responsibility and stress, so much that it was hard for her to be herself.  It felt like there was two of her, sometimes — the Inquisitor who was presented to the world, a stoic woman who struck fear into the heart of her enemies, and then the Al that her friends knew: the young woman with the heart on her sleeve and a lightness of spirit that continued to endure.

“Don’t let him hear you say that,” she commented, pulling away from him in order to sit on his desk instead.

“What will he do, curse me with bad fashion sense?”

“Or he’ll take away what defines your culture and then leave you without any explanation.”

A moment of utter silence passed, and Al seemed to realize that what she’d said could be taken as incredibly rude and callous.  Her face flushed a pretty pink, bringing out the freckles that dotted her cheeks like so many stars.

“That came out wrong,” she added, a little giggle of embarrassment escaping her, “Sorry, Dorian.  I’m just… I haven’t felt _right_ , lately.”

He could tell; he knew Al well enough to know when she wasn’t feeling like herself.  Reaching out for her, he laced their hands together and squeezed her hand, offering up a smile that he hoped conveyed that he was there for her. 

“Ever since the nightmare, I just haven’t…”  She shook her head, kicking her feet as they dangled over the edge of the desk.  “Have you ever felt like you can’t trust somebody anymore?”

“You know I have.”

Their eyes met for a moment, and a deep sigh filtered past Al’s lips.  “I do.  I just wish I knew what to do.”

“I think you do,” Dorian informed her, and a hint of a smile flitted across her features.

“Yes, you’re right.  Do you have any pressing matters coming up?  I’d like you to come with me.”

He grinned and Al returned the expression at last, the curl of her lips causing a crinkle at the corners of her eyes.

“All you had to do was ask.”

\--

It was the nightmare that woke Adriana.

They didn’t come as often now, not since she’d rid herself of the Taint and all assorted side effects, but just because she wasn’t dreaming of darkspawn any longer didn’t mean that she was free of all nightmares.  She’d seen some terrifying things in her lifetime, and not only during the Blight.  All too frequently, her forays into the Fade at night would be marred by the sights of Kinloch Hold, fallen to demons, or of Jowan running from Templars, having lied to them all.

Even more frequently, she saw herself staring up at the Archdemon, the last line of defense against it.  She saw Zevran, lying dead on the ground not five feet away, his eyes wide and glassy, daggers fallen from his hands and his blood pooling beneath where he had fallen.  And there, struggling to breathe — Alistair, hands pressing against where he had been run through with a darkspawn blade.

This was it.  There was no one else to strike the final blow, no one else to end this battle for the world.  She hadn’t taken Morrigan up on her offer, and now there was no other choice.

_Let the blade pass through the flesh_ …

Her magic would do her no good; it was time to return to her old ways, the way of the hunter.  A last honor to her people; it would be a Dalish who saved the world, not just an elven mage.

_Let my blood touch the ground…_

The bow was lying near Zevran, the wood slick with blood — she didn’t know whose.  There was so much death, all of her friends were _dead_ and she was the reason…  It almost made her falter, almost made her fall, to see her lover’s skin so pale, his body so cold.  Zevran was all summer, all copper and scorching sun and the smell of spices.  Now there was no comforting scent of spices — only blood.  Next to the bow was a quiver of arrows; she grabbed those as well.

_Let my cries touch their hearts…_

The Archdemon stood before her, massive and terrifying, but she was no longer afraid.  She was no longer the girl who had entered this war, no longer just a mage or just an elf. She had loved, she had beheld beauty in even the darkest of times, had held a man without any fear that he would hurt her.  She was a woman, strong and unafraid.

_Let mine be the last sacrifice._

She let her arrows fly, her despair and rage fueling her fatigued body to shoot non-stop, and as the last one made contact —

She woke up, a sharp cry escaping her just as a loud knock came at their door.  Beside her, Zevran jolted awake — whether at her sudden movement or the possibility of an attack, it didn’t matter, he was _alive_ and that nightmare had been all too realistic — and his hand flew towards the dagger that lay on a bedside table. 

It took them both a moment to remember that they were in Skyhold, that they were _safe_ — and wasn’t that a strange feeling, to not have to worry about assassins or wolves or (even worse) _bears._   Zevran relaxed marginally, dagger lowering, and Adriana got out of bed and padded over to the door, taking the quilt with her.

“Yes?”

She’d opened the door, quilt wrapped around her for warmth against the chill of the night (she could hear Zevran mumbling his complaints about the cold, and the blanket shifted as he pulled it around himself as well).   The Inquisitor stood there, hair a tangled mess, eyes wide open despite the late hour.

“We have to leave.  _Now_.”

There was an urgency in Al’s voice that prompted Ana to wake up more, and she pulled Al into their room, motioning for Zevran to shut the door.

“What is it?”

The Inquisitor looked… _afraid_.  It was unsettling, if only because Adriana couldn’t figure out why the other woman was so on edge.

“Solas can’t know that we’re leaving,” she responded, voice hushed and frantic, “He’ll want to come and he _can’t_ , I can’t let him —”

Zevran shot a concerned look in Adriana’s direction, and the woman only hesitated for a moment before allowing the quilt to fall to the ground.

“Start packing, Zev,” Adriana said, and then, “Can Cullen watch Phil?”

“I told Varric,” Al said by way of an answer, “I still have to wake up Hawke and Anders.”

Adriana pulled Al into a hug, just firm enough to remind that she wasn’t alone, and then pulled back.  “Well, do that.  Where will we meet?”

Al gave them directions to a secret passage out of the fortress, and then slipped out of their room much more quietly than she had first entered.

Zevran sighed, sliding his arms around Adriana and placing his head on her shoulder.

“What was that you said about visiting Skyhold, _amor_?  _A change of pace,_ no?”

Adriana let out a snort of amusement, twisting her way out of his grasp and pressing a kiss to his cheek.  “Don’t be so smug, Zevran.  It doesn’t suit you.”

Her husband flashed a toothy grin at her, but went back to packing their things.  He had a point, of course, but she wasn’t going to admit that.  Besides, she wasn’t about to turn down a friend in need.

“Come on,” she sighed, “Where’s my armor?”

\--

By the time they left Skyhold, the sun was lightening the horizon, and each of them were bundled up against the mountain air.  It was only early fall but the wind that buffeted them was bitter; Adriana was wrapped in multiple cloaks and had a scarf wrapped around her neck and head to protect her ears from the cold.

“I hate the winter,” Adriana grumbled, rubbing at her eyes, which were still crusty from sleep (or lack _thereof_ ).  Her husband laughed; she sniffed and kicked his shin, before falling back to the rear of the party.  There were eight of them in all, a great deal more than Adriana had ever dared take on a journey before — small groups were best, she had discovered, especially since you could forestall any arguments that way.  But this was Al’s quest, not Adriana’s, and she didn’t claim to know the younger woman’s mind.

“You’re a Warden or whatever, right?”

The girl who spoke could only be around twenty at the oldest, with rough-cut blonde hair and sharp blue-gray eyes.  She was staring up at Adriana, her nose wrinkled in some emotion that the older woman couldn’t place, and the Warden was suddenly struck with an image of her _own_ sister, who had only been a few years younger than the blonde elf when she died —

“Yes, I’m a Warden.  Most people call me Adriana, though.”

“Adriana?  Thought you’d have an elfy name, like _Fen’Lethal_ over there.”  The younger elf gestured vaguely in Al’s direction, nose still wrinkled.  “I mean, you’re Dalish, yeah?  Got the tattoos and all?”

Adriana nodded, adjusting to the younger elf’s manners of speech as easily as she’d adjusted to Sten’s when she’d first met the Qunari.  She’d become used to this over the years, shifting her mindset to get along with others as best as she could.  It was borne of her earliest days in the Circle, of trying to fit in with those who had never felt wild earth beneath their bare feet, who didn’t know the stories of Fen’Harel and Mythal and Sylaise.  She’d had to stop referring to the Creators, had to substitute _Maker_ or _Andraste_ in where once she had breathed the names of her people’s gods.

“And you’re Sera, yes?”

The blonde nodded, a sharp jerk of her head. “Al tell you ‘bout me?”

“Just a bit.”

The Inquisitor hadn’t mentioned much; just that the younger elf had been born in Denerim and headed a group known as the Friends of Red Jenny.

“Heard stories about you,” Sera ventured, “Made you sound like some big person, all high and mighty.  But you’re _not,_ are you?  You’re like me.”

“Like you?”

“Yeah,” Sera said, “Like me or my friends.  _Little people_.”

Ana wouldn’t necessarily call herself a _little person,_ if only because her title of _Hero of Ferelden_ gave her some modicum of influence in the human world.  But she had come from poverty in the forest, moved to the bare lifestyle of the Circle.  She supposed it was the best way to describe the circumstances she’d come from.

Sera was perfectly correct about _one_ thing, though; Adriana was _not_ high and mighty.

“I suppose I am,” Adriana replied with a genuine smile.

Sera smiled back.

\--

It was all Al’s fault, really.  After all, _she_ was the one who had given the order to stop pursuing rogue Templars.  Word of them had died down almost completely; she had (wrongly) assumed that they would no longer pose a threat.

When they were attacked on the road, however, she realized how wrong she had been.  The Templars weren’t gone — they were just quieter about who they went after.  And a group of travelers on the road, the vast majority of them mages? Well, no Templar was going pass that up.

They weren’t expecting it, and they were vastly outnumbered.

“It’s him!” one of the Templars yelled, grabbing at Anders while simultaneously doing… _something_ that sucked all of the magic from her.   It was a strange feeling, losing something she’d only just gotten used to having, and it left her feeling drained.

“ _Anders_!” Hawke screamed, but the apostate merely shook his head — he looked as tired as Al felt.  The Templars grabbed him and blue flickered across his skin, weak but _present,_ until one of the Templars let loose another Smite and drained the magic once more.

Al reached for her daggers but the movement felt sluggish; she saw the other rogues moving much faster.

“No!” Anders said, “No, Hawke — keep moving!  _I love you_!”

And the Templars were gone, Anders with them.

“No,” Hawke whispered, looking frail as a cobweb, “No, no, _no_ …”

Adriana, leaning heavily on Zevran but looking ready to commit murder, snarled in the vague direction of where the Templars had headed.  “ _Bastards_ ,” she spat, and then, “I’m going after him.”

“Absolutely _not_ ,” Zevran countered, in a tone that left no room for argument — or _would_ have, if he wasn’t speaking to a former Warden-Commander — “I will not allow it.”

“He’s a Warden, Zevran,” Adriana pointed out, gray eyes blazing with her anger, “I have a duty to protect him.”

“Against thirty Templars?” Zevran asked, “ _Mi amor,_ I doubt there is much even _you_ could do against such a force.”

She bared her teeth, pulling away from her husband and starting resolutely towards the forest.  “I’ll kill every last one of them,” she threatened, “how _dare_ they!”

“You aren’t going alone,” Hawke said suddenly, staggering after her, still reeling from the effects of the Smite, “That’s _my_ husband.”

“Wait — ” and Al shook her head, trying to clear her mind “ — I’ll go too, just give me a minute.”

It was _Sebastian_ who grabbed the Inquisitor, his hand closing around her wrist and holding her firmly in place.  Al, still groggy from the Smite, couldn’t summon the strength to shake him off.

“Three mages against thirty Templars will accomplish nothing,” he warned, and then, “I will go with Zevran and Sera; the Inquisitor may accompany us _after_ she drinks a potion.”

Al grimaced but complied, tugging a bottle from her belt and tugging out the cork with her teeth, knocking back the potion and throwing the empty flask to the ground.  “Better?” she asked, voice flat.  She heard Dorian laugh quietly, and the sound almost brought a grin to her face.  _Almost_.  Instead, rejuvenated by the drought, she tugged herself free of the prince and spun to face her companions, hands pressed firmly to her hips.

“Happy, _Prince Vael_?”

The man’s mouth pressed into a thin line, but his bright blue eyes looked amused at the elven woman’s attitude, and he nodded at her.  Hawke and Adriana, however, looked thunderous at being left out of the rescue mission — Adriana moreso.  The redhead pinned Sebastian with a harsh glare, lips twisting into a snarl.

“He’s _my_ responsibility — ”

“Adriana,” Zevran said softly, grabbing his wife gently and tugging her towards him, “You’ll get yourself killed.  Let us go.”

Adriana bristled, obstinate as ever, but seemed to realize the truth in her husband’s words.  She backed down.  Sebastian reached for Hawke, gripping her slender shoulders in his gloved hands.

“I _will_ save him,” he promised, “And those who took him will pay.  I swear this to you, Charlotte.”

Hawke, still pale, still fragile-looking, swallowed hard and nodded.  They pulled apart.

“Well,” Sera said, nocking an arrow to her bow, “Let’s get on with it, yeah?”

The Templars weren’t all that hard to track, considering the massive path they’d broken through the forest, though the normally light banter was absent from the group of rogues.  It set Al on edge, even more than she already had been — she _knew_ how fast Templars worked, was terrified that they’d get there and it would be too late, that Anders would be dead or even worse, _Tranquil_.

Would Tranquility even work on a man possessed?  Or would they just execute him, rid themselves of the abomination who had destroyed the Kirkwall Chantry?  Al took a deep breath, fingered her daggers intently, and foraged ahead of the main party.

It didn’t take that long to reach the Templars, although Al wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.  Their enemies were still on high alert, but that didn’t stop any of the rogues from getting close — they were all a bit too stealthy for their own good.  One by one, her companions winked out of sight, leaving Al to follow them.

The Templars were formidable warriors, certainly, but the rogues were _better_ — and far more focused on just one target.  Despite the sheer number of Templars, Anders still stood out, mostly because of how tall he was.  The man looked pale and tired, probably from the Smiting the Templars had given him, but there was something in his gold eyes that Al recognized.  Determination.

He was waiting for an opening, she realized, because he didn’t realize that they were coming for him.  She had to stop him before he got himself killed.  Silently, invisible, she slipped between the Templars, careful not to touch any of them lest they discover her.  Her daggers were at the ready, and she approached Anders just to whisper in his ear:

“We’re here.  Don’t let them realize you’ve been freed.”

With that, she cut the binds on his hands and drove her blade into the nearest Templar, at the junction of where his plate met his helmet.  The man cried out, gurgled, and fell to the ground dead.  His compatriots turned their attention to Al, who bared her teeth in the mimicry of a grin and shook his blood off of her blade.

“I am the Herald of Andraste,” she called out, green eyes flashing, “And you have attacked a member of my fold.  Put down your swords now, and you will be spared.  Try to kill me or this man, and you will not survive.”

The Templars shuffled, uncertain, confused by the appearance of the slight elf who claimed to be Andraste’s Herald and had just stuck a knife in a man’s throat.  Then their leader — or at least who she assumed was their leader, judging by the grandeur of his armor — spoke up.

“False Herald!” he cried, “Destroy her, and the mage!”

Al laughed, which clearly discomfited the Templars further, even as they drew their swords.

“You were warned,” she said darkly, then, “So be it!”

One of her flasks shattered on the ground and wasps burst forth from it, finding the weak points in the enemies’ armor and stinging at the skin there.  Quite a few of her opponents fell to the ground, screaming and swatting at the bugs which were attacking them.  Al struck at those who didn’t, her daggers cutting golden arcs through the air, their enchantments burning or shocking the Templars.

The smell of the Fade permeated the air and the hair on Al’s arms stood straight up at the sudden rush of energy —  she spun around to see that Justice had burst forth, blue light blazing from Anders’ eyes.  Al laughed again, glad that these Templars were going to pay for their slight.

A gurgle sounded behind her, and she turned back to see that a Templar had come up behind her, only to take an arrow to the throat.  The fletching was blue — not one of Sera’s, then — and Al met Sebastian’s eyes from across the melee.  They shared a momentary glance, trading nods before returning to their battle.

They dispatched the Templars quickly, mostly due to the fact that, though it was thirty to five, four of the five were the best rogues Thedas had to offer.  Al killed the Templar leader with extreme prejudice, using the mark to open a rift above his head that sucked him into the Fade.  The blue light faded from Anders’ eyes, and he turned to them, looking even more exhausted.  Al sighed — it _had_ been a long day, and the Templars an unexpected setback.

“Let’s get back to the others and find a place to make camp for the night,” she suggested.  “It’s getting dark.”

==

They made camp in a sheltered clearing, building their fire by a rock outcropping and pitching their tents nearby.

“Just like the Blight,” Adriana said drily, sitting in the circle of light cast by the fire, “If only Alistair were here.”

“Or Morrigan,” Zevran added, sitting beside his wife and placing a kiss on her cheek, “Or both, perhaps.”

“ _Not_ both,” she insisted, “I had enough of those two bickering for a lifetime, as dear as they both are to me.”

The two shared a laugh at that, and shifted so that they were closer together, Ana in the assassin’s lap.  On the other side of the fire, Hawke combed her fingers gently through Anders’ hair, her blue eyes soft as she gazed at him.  Sera and Dorian had retired to their tents already, Sera because she was “bloody exhausted” and Dorian because he needed his beauty sleep.  Al’s response was that he was already pretty enough, which made the mage preen but did nothing to dissuade him from going to bed.

So Al sat by herself, knees drawn up to her chin, poking at the fire with a stick.  She was, as per usual, thinking about Solas.  The idea that he was keeping secrets still stung, still cut her deeper than any wound she’d physically experienced.  She could only pray to anyone who would listen that this secret wasn’t what she had seen in the dream — that the Dread Wolf wasn’t what all the stories suggested he was.  That she hadn’t been _wrong_.

That he wouldn’t break her heart again.

Tears stung her eyes, and she blinked them away.  It was the smoke, that was all.

“Inquisitor?”

It was Sebastian, sitting beside her.  Al looked up and realized that the others had gone to bed as well; she must have been sitting silently for longer than she thought.  The prince looked kind, his blue eyes soft as he sat beside her.  The fire was dying down, so she threw another piece of wood on it and poked at it until the flames came back to life.

“I’m alright,” she said quietly, though her voice betrayed her with the thickness of it.  The tears came back again, and she swiped at them with the back of one pale hand.

“Are you?” he asked, and the question was so direct that it garnered a startled noise from her.  The Inquisitor’s eyebrows flew up, her mouth falling open, and she accosted Sebastian with her look of utter surprise.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

The prince gave her an honest, open look, one eyebrow cocking as he gazed at her.  “You’re crying, Your Worship.”

Al blushed, both at the title and from the embarrassment of being discovered.  “I’m not crying,” she protested weakly, “It’s the smoke.”

Sebastian said nothing, but he offered her a knowing look that she knew all too well.  It seemed that she would not be able to fool him, so she sighed instead and let her eyes flutter closed briefly.

“I am troubled,” she confessed, “More troubled than I care to admit to my friends.  I try to have faith in my lover, but I fear he is keeping a deadly secret from me.”

“ _The one who repents, who has faith, Unshaken by the darkness of the world, She shall know true peace._ ”

Al arched her eyebrows at him: “Are you quoting the _Chant_ at me?”

A smile played at Sebastian’s lips, and a gentle hand rested upon her shoulder.  “You are Our Lady’s Herald,” he said, “Whether you believe it or not; I, and many others, have faith in you.  I know you are Dalish, and do not believe in the Maker.  It matters not — the Chant can provide comfort for everyone, even those who do not follow the words of Andraste.”

“You know,” Al said, unwilling to admit that his words _had_ calmed her somewhat, “I would be much more comfortable if we could dispense of these silly titles.  Please, just call me Al.”

“Only if you call me Sebastian.”

She smiled at him, a genuine thing, and placed her hand over his.  A gesture of friendship; she was warming up to the prince.

“So be it.  I should go to bed, however.”

“Aye.  As should I.”  But as they went to part ways, she heard Sebastian’s voice say another part of the Chant:

“ _Those who oppose thee_  
Shall know the wrath of heaven.  
Field and forest shall burn,  
The seas shall rise and devour them,  
The winds shall tear their nations  
From the face of the earth,  
Lightning shall rain down from the sky,  
They shall cry out to their false gods,  
And find silence.”

And despite herself, Al smiled as she retired to her tent.

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter Title taken from "To a Freedom Fighter" by Maya Angelou.
> 
> I'm writing this one in past-tense; I'm not sure why, since it isn't what I usually do, but whatever. That's how it started that's how it's going to be. I'm also hoping to do shorter chapters, maybe get them out faster? We'll see. I tend to do long chapters (oops).


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